


The Cracking

by dendriticgold



Category: Downton Abbey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 36,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriticgold/pseuds/dendriticgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What 'choosing his own path' comes to mean to Thomas Barrow. Non canon compliant (I assume). Heed the decision not to use warnings in later chapters. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thomas’s hope for a quiet moment (and cigarette) to calm his nerves before attending his meeting was a forlorn one. The time it had taken on the train from Yorkshire and to deposit his bag at the Inn had put him out onto the London streets at the height of the late morning commute. Harried gentlemen, scruffy tradesmen and women carrying large purses and baskets jostled him on all sides. And Thomas couldn’t quite seem to muster his usual confident stride, known for getting pedestrians quickly jumping out of his way. Not given where he was going.

The Centre was on a main road. That surprised him. He’d imagined that a place dealing in his sort would have maintained a lower profile. Mind you, he vaguely recalled the man on the phone mentioning that Choose Your Own Path was a means by which all manner of negative mental conditioning could be realigned. He supposed others may not have problems that necessitated quite such clandestine conditions as his. Thomas felt somewhat validated to find the centre standing proud in the middle of a bank of affluent commercial terraced properties – he doubted he could have accepted the indignity of putting his wellbeing into the hands of a business operation out of a back alley slum. Here was a respectable address. A respectable establishment even.

His presence here was perfectly acceptable, Thomas reminded himself as he approached the front of the building, still hemmed in on all sides by street traffic. And it was a highly commendable thing he was doing by coming here, that’s what the man on the phone had said. Still, he couldn’t quite broker the idea of finishing his smoke standing on the front porch – in full view of the crush of people shuffling along the pavement below.

He found the front door open, as the man on the phone had said he would, and slipped inside so quickly he almost caught his coat in the frame as the door swung shut behind him.

‘Oh.’

He was still in the process of regaining composure when he was confronted by a woman walking down the hallway in the opposite direction. She said nothing, offering a weak but serene smile before moving past him to the front door. She exhibited nothing by way of concern to be seen exiting the premises, closing the door carefully with a soft click behind her. Thomas felt strangely hypnotised by the woman’s calmness – he had damn near burst a blood vessel himself at the unexpected sight of her.

As his troubled mind fixated on the distraction, a purposeful flutter of paper from the far end of the hall alerted him to the fact that he was not alone.

Looking down the bland hallway, with its complete lack of pictures and decorative furniture, a coldly functional space if ever there was one, Thomas spied the reception desk.

He walked quickly, hoping to disguise his trepidation, to the little desk set into the alcove under the staircase. Behind it sat a dull but neatly turned out woman with grey hair fixed into a simple but modern style, and a dress and jewellery that were the picture of modesty. If not exactly welcoming, her appearance and demeanour were nevertheless unthreatening.

Thomas came to a halt in front of her. She looked up at him, a similar thin smile to the woman he had passed earlier fixed on her face, and said nothing. This went on for a good half a minute; Thomas’s discomfort increasing throughout. He could have sworn the thin smile on her face grew broader as he squirmed.

‘Mr Smith…’ Thomas eventually chocked out. ‘I’m Mr Smith. I telephoned. I have an appointment at nine o’clock with Mr Moore.’

‘Oh I see dear.’ Said the old woman, looking at him with a simperingly sympathetic look that turned his stomach. ‘Well the others are here, so please do go right on in. The room is on the first floor, number…’

‘Others?’ Said Thomas.

‘Why yes dear.’ She said, launching into a well learned speech. ‘It’s important for the process that unfortunates share in the experiences of others in and out of themselves. It’s important that you not feel alone during this troubling time.’

‘But…but we spoke about an _individual_ session…’

‘Of course, I have it right here…’ The old woman tapped the leger in front of her, the words written in such tiny print they could have contained a coffee order for all Thomas knew. ‘You’re to speak with Mr Moore at a half passed ten. After your introductory meeting.’

‘I’ll come back later then.’ Said Thomas, finding his voice frustratingly small and useless. ‘I’ll be back to speak with him then.’

The woman sighed, making a show of putting down her pen and cocking her head to one side with a weary look of affection more suited to a mother to her son (though the hint of amusement as she spoke would, one hopes, be alien to the aforementioned circumstances).

‘My dear if you do not attend the introductory meeting…’ She said, speaking slowly. ‘…then how is our Mr Moore to think you serious enough about the process to keep your later appointment?’

Thomas sharply drew breath, overcome with exasperation at having been backed into a corner by a patronising old woman (and one who seemingly couldn’t help referring to him as ‘dear’) but also panic that his efforts to make multiple clandestine phone calls, trick Carson into giving him the time off, spending money on tickets, room and board, not to mention actually turning up at the centre, might all come to naught.

The idea of returning to Downton with this burden still hanging over his head, especially knowing that the promise of resolution resided in tantalisingly easy reach in London, and that it might be months before he could wrangle leave from Carson to try again, knowing that all that awaited him in his present state was the same bleak loneliness; it was too much.

Perilously close to shedding a tear, and eager to give his lip another occupation besides trembling, Thomas gruffly demanded that the infuriating woman direct him immediately to the meeting room.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas pushed open the door to the meeting room as softly as possible, eye line deliberately low, intending to slip as inconspicuously as possible into the back of whatever gathering was in progress.

Unfortunately for him, the present attendees were seated on a tight circle of chairs in the centre of the otherwise rather bare room. The only spare chairs were a good distance away, and he had no hope of slotting into the circle unless several of the gentlemen consented to a significant amount of shunting.

‘Sorry, I…’ Thomas mumbled, caught in the gaze of the seven men present, all of whom were staring straight at him.

There was a gentleman not far from his own age and dress, who sported a very over consciously poised way of sitting that told Thomas he was from business rather than service. There were two other men of a similar age who looked to be tradesmen, if the roughness in their faces was anything to go by. There was a young lad, shoulders low, who seemed determined to burrow away through the back of his chair. Two older men, whose attire and bulbous red noses put Thomas in mind of the men down the working man’s pubs in Manchester, were dispersed on opposite sides of the circle. And at the far side sat one elder, sporting a well-trimmed but full beard, who despite being not much older than the red-nosed men held a sense of sage wisdom in his countenance and confidence - while the others in the room looked very much as though they had recently been slapped in the face with a wet fish (Thomas included).

‘Come in!’ The bearded elder proclaimed, getting to his feet with a potent enthusiasm despite a hint of restricted mobility due to his advancing years. He strode forwards to beckon Thomas closer, reaching between the chairs to clasp at Thomas’s right hand with both of his for a firm shake. ‘Mr…?’

‘Um…Smith.’ Thomas just about managed to remember in time. ‘Mr Smith.’

The gentleman before him threw back his head in an exaggerated, but strangely infectious laugh that rippled around the group and almost had Thomas himself joining in despite knowing with absolute certainty that the joke was on him.

‘I don’t see…’ Thomas began.

‘Oh, oh!’ The man chortled, wiping a tear from his eye with a flourish. ‘You see four of your brothers have come before you…’ He let go of Thomas’s hands and moved about the centre of the circle, pointing to each gentleman as he went. ‘Here we have Mr Smith, and to his right, Mr Smith, then Mr Smith, then a Mr Brown, another Mr Brown, ah, and, of course, Mr Smith.’

Another ripple of laughter, this time more subdued, made the rounds about the circle. Several of the men shifting uncomfortably.

‘Now don’t be like that.’ Declared the elder, stepping with some difficulty out of the circle to retrieve Thomas a chair. ‘It is important, in fact, that it be this way.’ He indicated with a brisk wave of his hand for the youngest member of the circle and one of the tradesmen should part ways to admit Thomas to the circle. ‘Because when we are unnamed we may be truly free to share those things which…’ The man indicated for Thomas to sit. ‘…trouble our innermost thoughts.’ The man sat down, legs pointing straight out into the circle, crossed at the ankle, and clasped his hands forwards, chopping them through the air repeatedly for emphasis as he spoke. ‘I am Mr Moore, and I am here to help each and every one of you if you will but help yourselves.’

The vigorously delivered mission statement was met with silence, save for a tickling cough from the businessman.

Moore seemed undeterred.

‘We begin with you.’ He said, indicating the tradesman next to Thomas. ‘Tell us, what brings you here?’

‘Well I…um…’ The man cleared his throat, then genuinely coughed, then shifted in his seat, then laughed.

‘In your own time.’ Said Moore kindly, smiling, not seeming in the least riled by the man’s attitude.

‘Well, it’s like this you see…’

It emerged that his personal life had generally involved nothing of the hanky panky sort due to ‘working all hours the Lord sends’ but that events the previous cold winter had led to some inconsequential rutting with an equally cold co-labourer and the matter had preyed on his mind. ‘I just want to be sure that it’s not…that it’s nothing serious.’ The man concluded. ‘Because I don’t think it’s me. I just want to be sure.’

‘Thank you, Mr Smith.’ Said Moore, as though there were no doubt at all that were the moniker of the man speaking. ‘That cannot have been an easy moment for you to recount to us.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘And thank you also for bringing up an issue that goes right to the very heart of what it is we do here; helping you to understand that this is your choice. There is no ‘being sure’, as you say. The state in which you find yourself is not absolute. It is the product of choice. The fact that you are here says to me that you are already sure of the correct choice, you just need to believe, to be empowered…’ Thomas found himself leaning forwards, caught in Moore’s words, as were several others. ‘…to act upon that knowledge…’ Moore paused a moment, the silence in the room now charged with energy. ‘…to choose your own path.’

 Thomas nodded. No reason why. No one was paying him any mind at the time. He just felt the need to. The words, recognised from the advertisement, spoken with such vigour by Moore’s robust yet warm voice, took on a meaning, a potential, a purpose, that seemed suddenly very real. And his chest warmed at the thought.

‘Now you…’ Moore indicated the older man to the right of the tradesman.

Thomas listened intently to each story. Each successive personal history so vastly different from the one before. The old man, it emerged, had never dallied in the ‘physicality’ as he called it. But he had a compulsive habit centring around pornographic postcards, obtained sometimes at great personal risk, and experienced a ‘swelling of the loins’ whenever confronted by classical nudes of the masculine proportions. Thomas couldn’t help but pull a face at such decidedly stupid personal ‘demons’, as the man described them. He failed to see the great discomfort that had led the man to the group. Other stories were a little more understandable. The businessman, for example, found himself unable to consummate his marriage with his wife. The other tradesman found himself regularly ‘putting lips upon, and suckling at, things that ought not to be suckled so’ as he charmingly put it, with regards to a man he had taken up residency with in a boarding house a few months previous. The young boy spoke, in a painfully thin voice, of having put his hands on (not specifying precisely where) a fellow he had counted as friend. The friend, understandably horrified (here in the story Mr Moore gave a sage nod, urging the distressed boy onwards with the account) promptly went and told the boy’s father; the latter instrumental in making his son an appointment at their present venue.  

 There was nothing like his own story, but nevertheless Thomas’s mouth hung open a little in surprise as he listened to each successive account. Hardly able to believe, upon realising, that he was in a room surrounded by men who could discuss this thing…this secret thing that he had never rightly known discussed save for stolen moments under dark bed-covers, almost invariably with a man one never saw again, or at least not for conversation…but here they were, discussing it, bold as anything. The most stunning realisation of the moment; that for the first time there was no sense of isolation. He wasn’t alone. These men were like him, or at least some of them were, and they were talking about being like him. And that was alright. No censure.

‘And now you, Mr Smith.’

Thomas blinked. ‘Me?’

Moore nodded, smiling.

‘Right, well…’ Thomas breathed deeply, staring unseeing at the floorboards as he probed into memories of times he hadn’t had cause to revisit for years. ‘…I suppose I’ve never really liked girls…’ ‘Girls’ seemed to be the appropriate word to use, his female contempories were not yet ‘women’ at the point when he had decided they held no interest for him.  

‘So you chose not to pursue girls…’ Moore prompted as Thomas’s mind began to wander.

‘Yes.’ He said, without pausing to ponder it as a question. ‘So I started to spend time with…boys.’ He continued. ‘My dad, and I, we never got on for other reasons but that didn’t help.’ Thomas paused to wet his suddenly dry lips with his tongue. ‘So I got away soon as I could. Went into service.’ He took another deep breath, still staring at the floor, cheeks reddening a little at knowledge of the degree of carnality in his own story relative to the others assembled in the room. ‘And that was where things really took off, you might say.’ He played with his hands, rubbing the palms, fine leather to skin, against one another as he rested his elbows on his knees; finding the hunched position more comforting in its sense of supplication than sitting upright given what he had to divulge. ‘When the household came to London, or when certain…I suppose you might say, affluent, gentlemen came to stay, I would make it my business to get in with them. I had…relations…with more than a few.’

‘You mean you were a prostitute?’ The meek voice of the young man to his left rose up, not condemning or outraged, merely nakedly curious.

It was Thomas that was outraged. ‘No!’ He declared as he sat up abruptly. ‘I just liked a man with a bit of breeding about him, that’s all!’

‘Oh.’ Said the young man, almost sounding disappointed at expectations of so scandalous a potential twist being dashed.

‘These men that you had relations with.’ Moore said quickly, drawing Thomas’s attention away. ‘Tell me how it would go?’

‘Well I would make my intentions known, they’d do the same, then we’d have our meeting.’ Said Thomas simply.

‘I see.’ Said Moore, nodding again and smiling in such a way as to leave Thomas with the uncomfortable feeling that he had missed something. ‘And then, I presume, these gentlemen would depart your company.’

‘Yes.’ Said Thomas, his throat now feeling as dry as his lips.

‘Would they leave you tokens to remember them by?’

‘Not really…Not often.’

‘Would you make promises to one another?’

‘No, but I…’

‘But you what?’

‘I hoped…’ Thomas’s breath caught in his throat, the following words coming out soft and prayer like. ‘…I hoped that one day one of them might wish to…make promises.’ He said, finding this revelation even less palatable to share than the fact he had bedded the men in the first place.

‘I see.’ Moore sighed. ‘You robbed yourself of the comforting affection of women. What else could you do than seek it in other places? Never knowing that such affection as you were to find with men would never be more than a poisonous parody of true, meaningful, attachment.’

Thomas remained silent, having no adequate answer.

‘Am I to take it that some loss of this false affection has led you to us today?’ Said Moore.

‘Not as such.’ Said Thomas, unable to quite convince his shoulders to uncurl to let him fully sit up in the chair. Unwilling to revisit the events of the more recent past, he instead dredged up the old. A time when a sense of optimism and invulnerability had still reigned supreme.

‘I suppose there was one man, years ago now, whose affection I truly had. Well, thought I had. For a time I thought we might be happy together. Stupid really, when I think about it, he was a Duke and I was just...’

Moore tutted, the sound coming out as a more affectionate than judgemental , a strange juxtaposition to the curtness of his next words. ‘And you were foolish enough to submit to his carnal desires for the promise of a future together?’ He cut in.

‘For what it’s worth, he submitted to mine.’ Thomas said wryly, unable to resist even under the present awkwardness; still finding enough pleasure in the sense achievement of having had one of the highest ranking noblemen in the country prostrate beneath him to be able to cut through the sadness that had followed.

That raised a hearty laugh from everyone around the circle.

From all, that is, except Moore.

‘You find that funny?’ He said sharply, good humour and brightness momentarily replaced by something smouldering and unsettling, addressing the other members of the circle rather than Thomas. No one offered an answer, but they had the good sense to shrink back into themselves in anticipation of the storm to come.

‘And you…’ Moore turned his attention back to Thomas. ‘…you think that something to gleefully declare? Do you not see that is worse?’

‘Worse?’  

‘Yes, worse!’ Moore repeated. ‘This…’ He addressed the whole circle. ‘…this is key, gentlemen, and mark this well. There are some…’ Moore closed his eyes, head quivering for a moment, finger raised pointing to the ceiling. ‘…who believe…’ He opened his eyes. ‘…that to play the man, rather than the woman, is somehow an acceptable thing.’ He spoke as though in utter disbelief that anyone could possibly think so. ‘They think that if they do not submit themselves, then they are still men.’

Thomas, who in all honesty had never thought in such terms, and who would have happily turned the tables for the Duke (on negotiated temporary basis) had he ever asked him, felt compelled to offer a rebuttal of some kind. The purpose of his visit to London was temporarily forgotten in a surge of anger towards the ignorance of the man conducting the small crowd in front of him. He crossed his arms in front of him, chin pressed down into his chest, waiting for the moment to pounce.

‘But the truth is different.’ Moore asserted, making a point of ignoring Thomas for the moment. ‘These men are perhaps deceived in their motives themselves. But I tell you all here today that what these men do is far worse than those who cast themselves in the role of women…’

Astonish me, thought Thomas darkly.

‘…they corrupt.’

Thomas looked up.

‘They corrupt.’ Moore repeated, giving no outward sign of having spotted Thomas’s reaction, not to mention slackened facial expression, continuing to address the group.

‘They corrupt the flesh of another for their own carnal ends. They not only render themselves wanton and wretched beings, but they are gripped…’ Moore raised a hand and brought his fingers to his palm so abruptly that a solitary clap rang out in the room. ‘…by the compulsion, the sheer selfish compulsion, to corrupt others.’

Thomas realised that several muscles in his jaw were getting away from him at that moment, but he was unable to do much to control them.

‘And men of such inkling often give little care as to the partiality of their bedfellow.’ Said Moore as several of the others shook their heads in disapproval at this sad state of affairs. ‘In fact one might say, they only consult their own wishes.’

A strangled noise ejected itself from Thomas’s throat. Moore smiled.

Thomas watched as Moore rose up from his chair; the latter looking strangely happy, and moving with what one could almost mistake for a sense of triumph.

‘They destroy what is good, and innocent.’ Moore barked, his eyes fixed on Thomas’s face.

Thomas crumpled.

‘But…’ Moore’s voice softened as he reached out to grip Thomas’s shaking shoulder. ‘…we can help.’


	3. Chapter 3

As Moore settled back down into his seat an uneasy sense of calm settled over the room. Thomas’s breathing remained distressed, but settled down from the strangled gulps of earlier. For a while it was the only audible sound in the place as the men waited, patiently and with palpable trepidation, for Moore to resume.

Eventually, at length, he obliged.

‘So gentlemen…’  He said, arms and palms upturned and open to the gathered group. He clapped his hands together sharply. ‘…I feel I now have a good working understanding of what circumstances have brought each of you here. You are to be congratulated for courage in sharing your stories.’ He said soothingly. ‘However…’ He continued, still gently. ‘…this willingness…proudness even, to declare your deviations is deeply deeply troubling. And it is this problematic aspect which we must now…’

The tradesman to Thomas’s left gave a loud snort of laughter. ‘So we’d get more marks for saying nothing?’ He said, looking either side of him, inviting his compatriots to share in the joke. The slightly tubby fellow with a penchant for pornographic postcards gave a grin, though his mirth seemed to stem more from the pleasure of partaking in an earthy outspoken lad’s company rather than wishing to challenge Moore’s words. Thomas avoided eye contact and remained expressionless. ‘Don’t see how that would be helpful mate.’ The tradesman guffawed.

Moore’s face took on a look of kindly patience. ‘You quite mistake my point.’

The tradesman made a rasping noise with his lips, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head, legs sprawled out in front of him where previously he had made at least a token attempt to maintain an upright, respectful, posture. ‘You asked to be told and you were.’ He said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Bet if we hadn’t have told you you’d be having a go at us and all.’

Moore breathed deeply, still looking serenely at the man. Ever so slowly he shook his head.

‘Were you expecting a treat for your tale?’ Said Moore gently. ‘Is this why you are upset?’

‘No, but…’

Thomas turned towards him, watching the increasing paleness and growing discomfort of the man’s face with a sense of detachment but also foreboding.

‘You think that you are to be rewarded for regaling us with your recollection of the way that the head of the…cock…’ Moore enunciated the word as though repeating the made-up nonsense word of a child. ‘…of your lackey companion, was to be felt poking out of the waistband against which you ungainly ground your stomach and groin for several hours while…’

‘No I didn’t…I didn’t mean to say…’ The man babbled, eager to halt Moore’s re-telling of his story, which came out with all the force of a dark diatribe despite Moore’s placid expression, rather than able to offer anything by way of rebuttal or coherent response.

Moore stopped, seemingly satisfied. He regarded the tradesman for a few moments, his eyes briefly meeting Thomas’s in the process. Thomas immediately averted his gaze, Moore’s liquor-black eyes too potent and penetrating to permit lingering scrutiny.

‘My point gentlemen is this…’ Said Moore. ‘…yes I now know why you are here, but in your disclosures you have also shown me your pride, your amusement even.’ Moore screwed up his face in disdain, just in case those present managed to miss the disapproving and reproachful tone. ‘Yes you have all admitted you feel the need to change but somehow this does nothing to diminish your earlier sense of achievement.’

Thomas looked down at his hands. The man had a point. He hated to admit it but he did. Definitely. Thomas felt oddly numb. It was him, Moore had him exactly. He wanted to change, wanted that chance at future happiness, but…but his memories. Those few moments where it was good, they were few and far between, but when they were good they were good. He still thought of them as good. But now he considered them under an entirely new light.

He felt sick at his own short-lived satisfaction, minutes earlier, at having felt he was somehow ‘triumphing’ in declaring that he had gotten his highborn lover to open his legs for him rather than the other way round. What had possessed him?

The silence around the circle suggested that no one, including the outspoken tradesman, had any further challenge to offer: each lost in a moment of quiet reflection.

‘So…’ Said Moore, sitting forwards in his chair and giving another loud clap of his hands to draw attention back to himself. ‘Let us be clear on the lesson; it is you, you in yourself, not your actions, that we must fix. You men lack the proper sense of conscience, of shame. This self-deceit that you have all indulged in…’ Moore shook his head sadly. He paused, waiting for the inevitable prompt.

The young boy took the bait, practically whispering as he asked. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’

‘It cannot be described.’ Said Moore, still shaking his head as though deeply regretful on behalf of everyone assembled. ‘It can only be experienced.’

More curious looks were exchanged.

‘You…’ Moore clicked his fingers and pointed at the outspoken tradesman. ‘…undress.’

‘What? Why?’ The man demanded, loudly and indignantly, his penitent humility of a moment ago vanishing as he once again lost control of what was clearly a highly explosive temper.

‘Undress.’ Moore repeated. ‘And come to stand in the centre of the circle.’

‘Why?’ Came the abrupt, angry, response.

‘Because making sure you understand who you really are is an essential part of the process. And if you cannot be self-aware in yourself, then the words of your peers may help you to…’

‘You can shove this!’ The tradesman declared. ‘I didn’t come here to go flopping it about for a bunch of Nancies to feast on! I came here to be cured!’

‘How sad for you that a state of undress leads you to assume salacious purpose.’ Said Moore. ‘Particularly when it comes to your fellow man.’   

‘Well right now, yes.’

‘If you will not work with me. With the process…’ Moore tented his hands, fingertips pressed together, and indicated over to the corner of the room. ‘…there’s the door. You are of course free to use it.’

Ripples of surprise rumbled around the group. Each man shocked by Moore’s unexpectedly abrupt order; the prospect of the ‘process’ being denied to them was something none had anticipated; a panic inducing thought that offset the discomfort at the latest developments in the room for the majority of men present.

Not so with the tradesman.

With a scrape of his chair, a toss of his head, not to mention some choice cussing (largely directed at Moore), he left.

Thomas failed to suppress an involuntary flinch at the sound of the slamming door.    


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas looked up to find Moore indicating towards him, palm upturned and inviting, face serene and smiling - the picture of encouragement, and in no way reminiscent of a man who had just been publicly disparaged and walked out on.

‘What?’ Thomas said weakly, trying to ignore the looks of relief on the faces of the men around him.

‘Remove your clothing and come and stand in the centre of the circle.’

‘But…’ Thomas swallowed uncomfortably. ‘What will that help?’ He spoke quietly, a genuine question rather than a challenge.

‘You will see.’ Said Moore simply. Seeing Thomas’s discomfort increase, accompanied by a slight shifting of his knees in the direction of the door, he quickly added. ‘And it is an essential step on the path you wish to follow.’ He emphasised the word essential with a sharp swipe of his hand. ‘To decide that you wish to follow the correct path is not enough. You must be released from the delusions that keep you anchored into your past, that deceive you into believing that you ever were happy or that you had the capacity to be so. For this process to be followed, this exercise is essential.’

‘Oh…’ Thomas mumbled, his mind elsewhere for a moment. His level of discomfort and embarrassment was already acute, despite his backside still being planted firmly on the chair and his clothes still on. He couldn’t imagine being put in a less desirable situation than the one he found himself in at the present moment.

But did he know what he was doing here? Had he anticipated or considered what might be necessary? Not at all.

He didn’t know how this fundamental shift in his way of thinking, and living, that the advertisement had spoken about was going to happen. If he knew how to bring it about himself he wouldn’t have expended time and money he could ill afford (in both cases) to bring himself here.

If anyone in the world knew, it was Moore. And Thomas was inclined to trust him; though whether this was because the man gave off a genuine air of integrity or if Thomas was so desperate to believe someone might have the answer that he would go on believing it unless absolutely forced not to…

He wouldn’t ever know if it was possible, would he, if he just walked away now?

Reassuring himself that if the ‘exercise’ turned out to be anything more (or less) than a genuine step towards setting himself on the right track he would be out the door in a heartbeat, Thomas shrugged out of his coat.

The next few minutes were a silent, save the rustling of fabric, experience in excruciating awkwardness.

Moore informing him that he could halt just before removing his underthings below the waist was a small, but welcome, mercy. The fact that he had elected to wear his winter long-johns rather than one of the far more flighty pairs of boxers he had purchased (more for fashion than in hopes of someone seeing them, these days he was a realist) took a little heat from his face also.

But still his humiliation felt pretty complete as he walked the seemingly endless one and a half feet forwards to stand, as directed, at the centre of the circle.

The room was cold, but his flesh seemed to burn. He curled his shoulders inwards a little; hands clasped together at his front attempting to shield what the soft fabric of his underthings didn’t quite adequately manage to obscure. He became oddly aware of his own scent, perspiring as he was through the sheer indignity of the situation. Finding the smell unpleasant himself, and without the usual layers of clothing to obscure the route from his skin to other’s noses, his embarrassment deepened. He frantically willed his body to calm and cool itself. But in the same way that a cough, once noticed, lingers stubbornly through a social engagement, his body persisted in making its discomfort known.

‘Gentlemen…’ Moore clapped his hands together, louder than before. Out the corner of his eye Thomas noted more than a few heads turning in surprise at the sound, having evidently been transfixed by the prospect in front of them.  ‘Let me pose you a question…’ He continued, speaking to everyone but Thomas. ‘…What were your thoughts on the man before you when he entered the room?’


	5. Chapter 5

‘It’s not a trick question.’ Said Moore, laughing pleasantly and lolling back in his seat.

‘Well…’ Piped up the young member of the group, evidently eager to score some points with Moore. ‘…I thought he was pretty.’

Moore tilted his head to one side, eyebrow raised, silently inviting the young man to rethink his statement.

‘I mean…um…was…You know? Was pretty.’ He babbled, blushing furiously. ‘When he was young.’

The words went through Thomas’s head in a detached manner, unpleasant, but not sufficiently cutting to draw a grimace or alter the blank expression on his face. In fact, hearing himself described as ‘pretty’ by someone clearly not given to guile was quite uplifting. That was until the past tense was emphasised to such a degree.

Even given that the boy’s blatant backtrack was a direct result of Moore’s disapproval, Thomas had to concede that to the boy he must look old. He must look past the point at which any serious attachment could be considered. And Thomas was suddenly sickened by the thought having occurred to him at all; honestly, even given the current context, could he not hear an attractive person of similar proclivities compliment him without instantly assuming the wish to be indicative of a desired attachment? The boy could be his son. If he’d ever had one.

That was an odd thought.

The notion of being able to have a paramour that one didn’t have to deny the existence of in public had been enough of a goal in itself, but the idea of making a life – both literally and figuratively – away from Downton with that person was a whole new tantalising responsibility that hadn’t seemed possible enough to merit thought before. Did he want children? A whole family?

‘Not quite what we’re supposed to be getting at…’ Moore’s words cut into his reverie as Moore good humouredly put an end to the young man’s babbling.  ‘But thank you for your contribution. Anyone else?’

‘I thought his manner of entering the room quite clumsy.’ The businessman offered, with a little twist of his head to add further reproach to the assertion.

Thomas’s own head gave a little turn at that. For a man whose entire life had been spent in worlds demanding unnaturally high levels of dexterity and deportment that was a shock. He supposed he had been rather tentative when he had arrived at the room, but was that any wonder given…

‘I wouldn’t say that…’ Piped up the rotund man, whose pocketed, highly-creased, inappropriate postcards were no doubt temporarily forgotten at the sight of Thomas’s contours, viewed sideways on.

Thomas silently projected his thanks, repulsive though the man was.

‘…I mean, he was clumsy…’ The man qualified. Thomas rescinded his thanks. ‘...but there was also an odd…’ The man twirled his chubby fingers about, clutching about for a suitably eloquent phrase as befitting his great intelligence and learning. ‘…conceited arrogance. The way he holds himself, he clearly thinks a lot of himself. Though why he should do so with so unfortunately sallow a skin tone and protruding a belly is quite beyond…’

‘Looks are not the salient point here.’ Moore cut in, though the words lacked punch. ‘Now does anyone else have something to offer?’

Thomas, mute as he had been since the start of the ‘exercise’, was too busy mentally processing the ridiculous idea of having his physique criticised by so ugly and unhealthy a creature to notice the change in tack. Too distracted to retort also. Although the idea of speaking at all in his current exposed state seemed a foolish notion anyway. Prolonging this activity in any way shape or form was a detestable thought.

Hands still clasped at his groin, Thomas brought his arms a little closer together across his chest and stomach; his earlier feeling of heat now giving way to an uncomfortable chill.  

‘He seemed quite…dull.’ The boy spoke again, tentatively.

 ‘Kind of lost.’

‘Lonely I imagine.’

‘Not approachable at all.’

‘Probably no friends.’

Thomas lost track of who was speaking as the observations came thick and fast from all sides.

The experience continued to be one of numb discomfort, an almost out of body experience as the words flowed through him.

From some hitherto untapped level of personal fortitude, Thomas managed to briefly draw a positive out of the situation; finding it refreshing and somehow validating to hear out loud what he had imagined others thinking.

But it was short lived.

‘What’s that on your hand?’

Thomas started out of his reverie, coming back to full consciousness for the first time since the ordeal had begun.

He looked to the man who had spoken. It was the second, remaining, tradesman.

‘It’s…’ Thomas unclasped his left hand from his right, leaving the latter cupped in its shielding position while he raised the other to his face, regarding the thin leather glove as though seeing it for the first time.

‘Go ahead Mr Smith.’ Prompted Moore gently.

‘It’s for a wound.’ Said Thomas quietly, looking to the tradesman. ‘There’s a wound underneath.’

‘Where’s it from?’ The tradesman replied.

Thomas had to redirect his gaze to the floor before responding. ‘The war.’

Had he looked up he would have seen the tradesman’s head slowly nodding. ‘Mmmm…’ The man murmured. ‘A single injury to the left hand. From the war.’

He said nothing more.

A good few more minutes of words from everyone save the tradesman (who having made his single contribution remained silent) and Moore (who cast himself mostly in the ‘observer/arbitrator’ role) passed before Thomas was permitted to return to his seat.

Thomas did so slowly, feeling more a shadow than a man.

He paid attention to nothing, dragging himself back into his clothes, fingers turned to thumbs, back turned to the rest of the group until the happy moment where he was put together enough to take his seat.

He was confronted by the sight of the young man who had been in the chair to his right standing on the spot he had previously occupied, in the same state of undress, though looking far more slender and small; his smooth skin glowing in the slant of sunlight from the windows.

He looked uncomfortable, distressed, close to tears...but good. Thomas resented it. He resented feeling anything by way of stirring for a boy young enough to be his son, he resented the boy for throwing such a stark light on the youth he had lost, he resented him.

And hearing comments from the others about how the boy was clearly a ‘stand-up lad’ with ‘good humility’ just added insult to injury.

‘I’ll bet you can’t see an attractive bloke without wanting to put your hands down his trousers.’ Thomas said scathingly, realising after the fact that his own feelings as a youth had informed that particular insult rather than the personal history that the boy had shared. He wasn’t speaking as much to the boy as to himself. 

But it achieved the desired effect.

The boy’s face turned beetroot, his back and shoulders shook, and he bowed his head.

And to Thomas’s dark satisfaction the rest of the assembled group followed his example.

Soon the boy was in bits.

‘Huge disappointment to your father…’

‘Perverted wretch…’

So much so that Thomas’s conscience gave such a twinge that he was compelled to throw the poor boy the only bone he could.

‘But you can still turn it round.’ Thomas said, cutting into whatever harsh drivel the man opposite was spouting. ‘You could still have the whole of a normal life. You’re young enough. If you decide now…there’s still time to have…everything.’ Thomas concluded, voice faltering a little at the end.

 

‘Yes!’ Moore exclaimed vigorously, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. ‘Yes! It is a choice. A choice!’ He repeated. ‘You are fully correct Mr Smith…except in one regard.’

Thomas waited on tenterhooks, fearful of what might follow.

‘You say this boy may make the choice, and have a life. But you neglect to mention that this same chance exists for every one of you.’

That drew looks of fortitude and the odd cautious smile from the group.

‘Now don’t you feel grateful to Mr Smith for his help?’ Said Moore to the boy.

The boy was still sobbing, but set his jaw and gave a determined nod. Thomas returned the gesture with a half-smile half-grimace.

‘Well done, you may be seated.’ Said Moore.

The boy fell upon his clothes and seat with astonishing speed.

Moore indicated for the ‘exercise’ to continue with the next unfortunate. And so it went on.

Thomas made sure to pick at as many aspects of the business man’s deportment as he could in payback for the ‘clumsy’ comment earlier, not to mention several choice observations about the man’s interactions with his new wife that said as much about Thomas’s hostility towards the man as it did about his jealousy at the man being so much further along ‘the path’ than he was.  

Thomas kept silent when the tradesman was put under scrutiny; merely staring down at his shoes and waiting impatiently for the man to be absorbed back into the obscurity of the group. He didn’t even mind that the man proved to be unshakable – evidently no stranger to public undress in whatever trade he was in, comfortable with the rougher parts of his physique (both natural and forged by a life of manual work), and always quick with an amused response to whatever negativity was levelled in his direction; staying expertly on the right side of cheeky to avoid Moore intervening on his roasters behalf. He returned to his seat with his dignity thoroughly intact and Thomas was happy to let him keep it if it meant he could more speedily return to pretending the man didn’t exist.

He did however verbally step in a moment later when the disturbingly unfortunate figure of the fat man who had been unashamedly perusing his body earlier was put on display. Thomas attacked the man’s motives in attending the session (‘You don’t want to change, you just came to be entertained…’) his hobby (‘Pathetic fantasising about all these men and boys who wouldn’t have you if their lives depended on it…’) and his body (Just look at you. Those filthy pictures and your disgusting leering here is about the closes you’re ever going to be to what you’ve wasted your whole life wishing you could have had…’). So thoroughly did Thomas eviscerate him, that the man (who had, in all honestly, initially decided to attend for a bit of titillation) was fully committed to the cure by the end of his turn. Anything to relieve him of his dark, perverted, pathetic fantasies.

‘Well done, well done everyone.’ Moore said brightly as the final man returned to his seat and began to rush into his clothes. ‘We have made a fine and good start here today.’ He looked around the group, surveying variable levels of distress, disorientation and nausea on the faces looking back at him. ‘Do you all now see why this exercise was so important?’

The men mumbled back in the affirmative; feeling utterly unmade but more committed to pursuing their ‘path’ than they would have ever thought possible; anything to replace the seething feeling of sickness coiling in their guts.  

‘Now then, I believe I have a personal appointment now with Mr….’ Moore’s eyes scanned the group again. ‘…Smith.’ He concluded, his eyes settling on Thomas. ‘But we shall re-convene as a group tomorrow morning for our next session. During this time I want you to be thinking about things you…’ He emphasised the ‘you’ sharply, his gaze seeming to connect with every pair of watching eyes all at once. ‘…could possibly do to help yourselves achieve your goals as we move forwards. For those who are still undecided of how far they wish to take this, use tonight to decide. Now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen…’ He rose out of his seat to the sound of slightly dazed applause and indicated for Thomas to follow him.

Thomas noticed a couple of the others looked confused, as though they had been expecting a private appointment also, but given he had somehow drawn the luck in the situation he didn’t linger around to discuss it. He jumped to his feet, silently swearing at the businessman who he was in no doubt was still judging his lack of grace, and followed after Moore.

His eagerness to finally talk properly to Moore was slightly tempered with his disappointment at missing the chance to talk to the other men in the group after the session. But if the looks on their faces (and speed with which they exited the room) were anything to go by, the ‘exercise’ had rendered any chances of fellowship highly unlikely.

Moore led the way into a small office to the side of the landing. Motioning for Thomas to take one of the seats by the desk (the smaller wooden one without padding), he closed the door softly behind them.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

‘You may smoke, Mr Smith.’ Said Moore, bending smoothly sideways in his chair to retrieve a pipe and tobacco pouch from the lower desk drawer.

‘I…’ Said Thomas absently, watching Moore’s fingers as they worked deftly to pack the pipe. ‘I don’t think I will.’ He said.

His fingers, not to mention the rest of his body, hadn’t quite regained full feeling since the numbing effect of his time in the circle. And the thought of fumbling with his cigarettes and matches, and the potential embarrassment of dropping them, made him feel panicky enough for his fingers to tremble a little in his lap.

Moore raised a match to his pipe. The tobacco in Moore’s pipe glowed three times in quick succession as he inhaled to get it going, breathing deeply of the flavour, as though rewarding himself for a job well done.

Taking advantage of Moore’s attention being temporarily elsewhere, Thomas clenched his fists together tightly in an attempt to stem the tremors. He glanced down as he straightened his fingers out. They were still trembling.

‘Do relax, Mr Smith. Believe me when I say these walls are a safe space.’ Said Moore soothingly, leaning back in his chair, pipe at his lips, as he regarded Thomas attentively. ‘One of the few to offer welcome to unfortunates such as yourself.’

‘Yes.’ Thomas agreed quietly.

Moore suddenly flew forwards to rest his elbows on the desk, so rapidly that Thomas flinched back into his chair in surprise.

If Moore noticed he didn’t show it.

‘You did very well this morning Mr Smith.’ Said Moore, the picture of earnest teacher, his speech as gentle as ever despite the frenetic movement of a moment ago. He nodded slightly as he spoke, eyes glowing, almost watering. ‘I was very proud.’

Thomas frowned at that. Taken pleasantly off guard, and feeling an odd internal warmth at the sentiment, he nevertheless had to balk at the complete inappropriateness and oddness of those words; spoken by, essentially, a stranger. Granted the stranger was old enough to be his father, and dim recollections from childhood (when encountering older men in a non-employment context had been a more frequent occurrence) suggested that the elder generation were often prone to hyperbolic over-familiarity when in ‘sage elder’ mode. But it still seemed odd.

‘You think you didn’t do well this morning?’ Said Moore, frowning in return, cutting into Thomas’s thoughts.

‘No, it’s just…’

‘Because you did do well.’ Said Moore. ‘You were open about some very personal details earlier.’

‘Yes.’ Said Thomas, staring down at his hands, cheeks growing hot. Continuing after an awkward pause that Moore, for once, didn’t consent to fill. ‘I want….I want very much to…engage with the process.’ He finished, recalling Moore’s phrasing from earlier.

‘So...’ Moore smiled, resting the pipe between his teeth a few moments, sending puffs of smoke up to the ceiling. He removed it with his right hand, clutching the bowl loosely as he crossed his arms, still smiling. ‘…why have you come to see me now?’

‘What do you mean?’ Said Thomas with a nervous laugh.

‘Why now?’ Said Moore abruptly, speaking sharply but still smiling. ‘From your personal history, you have been active and…as much as one can say this about the unfortunate sort…successful in satisfying your base urges. Why now?’

Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he had chosen to smoke so that he might have an excuse to pause a moment and consider his answer.

‘It’s like you said earlier.’ Thomas said, endeavouring with difficulty to hold Moore’s gaze. ‘About it not being…’ He hesitated before completing the sentence; recollections of a few moments of fleeting, but potent, warmth ghosting through his heart giving him cause to question the sentiment, but ultimately Moore’s rapt attention drew it out of him anyway. ‘…true and meaningful attachment.’

Moore nodded, motioning for him to continue.

Thomas didn’t.

‘Why now?’ Moore repeated, his smile taking on a wry quality.

‘I only just found your advertisement.’ Said Thomas.

Moore shook his head. ‘Mr Smith, one of your compatriots has already quit my counsel today, unless you wish to join him I suggest you stop lying to me.’ He spoke easily, but with such a matter of fact tone that Thomas’s heart gave an off-time palpitation in panic at the abruptness of the threat.

‘It’s just…’ Thomas drew a deep breath, looking everywhere in the room but Moore. The cracks in the plaster, the wooden windowsill, the smudges of soot in the fire, the cabinet by the side of the desk... ‘I’m lonely.’

Moore responded with an air of total finality. ‘Why…Now…?’

‘I lost Jimmy.’ Thomas blurted out, rocking forwards on his chair with the unexpected force of the assertion.

‘The Duke?’ Said Moore, rightly dubious of the name as applied to a member of the British elite.

‘No. A footman.’ Said Thomas with a miserable sigh. ‘A friend.’

‘A friend?’ Moore echoed, eyebrow raised.

‘Just a friend.’ Thomas said. ‘Really.’ He quickly added as Moore’s eyebrow continued to rise. ‘At first I thought he might be…interested…’ Thomas looked to Moore’s expression to see if he caught his drift; Moore looked back with a look so knowing it made Thomas feel foolish for checking. ‘…but he wasn’t, but then we became good friends. And that was…’ Thomas sighed again. ‘But then he had to leave. And I’m alone. Again. And there really isn’t anybody…I just thought, maybe if I was normal…’ He stopped sadly, giving a small shrug.

‘And nothing happened between you and this man?’ Moore pressed.

‘Nothing.’ Thomas said. ‘Well, I mean, there was…’

‘Go on.’

‘I kissed him.’ Said Thomas. ‘Back when I thought he was interested, I kissed him.’

‘I imagine that must have led to an awkward conversation.’ Said Moore dryly, sitting back, tapping out the contents of his pipe and pinching off a fresh helping of tobacco to pack into the bowl.

‘Not exactly.’ Said Thomas quietly.

‘Go on.’

‘He was…asleep.’

‘What?’ Said Moore sharply, stopping mid-motion with his finger stuck in the tobacco pipe.

‘He woke up!’ Thomas added quickly. ‘I wouldn’t have done it like that if he’d been awake.’ He continued frantically, trying to justify the act to himself as much as to Moore – never having given himself the luxury of thinking heavily on the events of that night before now. ‘It’s just, I’d finally gotten up the courage to talk to him. And he was asleep! So I went and kissed him…’

Moore stared at him, looking utterly horror-struck. Thomas’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably, his breathing shortening to the softest, smallest, gasps.

‘And then someone came in. And then he woke up…And then he shouted at me.’

‘Someone came in?’ Said Moore slowly.

‘Another footman.’ Thomas said meekly.

Moore said nothing for a moment, merely clenching his jaw and shaking his head, although his finger finally finished its work in packing in the tobacco.

‘Well thank goodness for this other footman.’ Said Moore, his voice taking on a hardness that Thomas recognised as a portent of doom from the earlier group session. He shrank back in his seat and unconsciously reached down to grip the sides of the chair for support.

‘How so?’ Thomas unwillingly prompted.

‘For the object of your perversion of course.’ Moore said. ‘Thankful for him that another intervened.’

‘I wouldn’t have done have done anything more.’ Thomas replied.

Moore gave him a dark look. ‘Clearly you were hoping to, if the other footman hadn’t walked in.’ He struck the match in his hand against the side of the table with far more vigour than necessary before bringing it up to his pipe.

The sense of déjà vu was overpowering, as was the creeping feeling of discomfort at someone managing to give Carson’s reproachful retort quite such a sinister bent.

He absolutely couldn’t respond in the same way he had previously.

Expressing a ‘hope’ for anything, given the circumstances...

He shivered, ice sliding its way from the middle of his chest across to his extremities.

‘And we were just saying earlier, weren’t we?’ Said Moore, taking a few puffs of his pipe, looking oddly serene. ‘About your selfish need to corrupt others.’

Thomas stared back at him, knowing but not caring that his jaw was now trembling along with his fingers.

‘I suppose.’

‘Was it just him? Just him and your men ‘with a bit of breeding’?’

‘No.’

‘There have been others?’

‘Perhaps. Sort of. I don’t know if…’

‘Let’s have it.’ Said Moore, standing up from his chair and beginning to walk slowly over to the window. A short walk in the tiny office, but he undertook it with great sense of purpose.

‘There was a man…’ Thomas said to Moore’s back. ‘…a man I knew in the war. But I never did anything. And that is the whole truth of it.’

‘Then why mention it?’ Said Moore, staring at the bricks of the opposite building through the window, eyes slightly squinted in the increasing brightness of the sun.

Thomas bit his lip. ‘He killed himself.’

Moore spun about to stare at Thomas with an expression of such ferocity that his attempts to answer the unspoken assumption came out in stuttering gibberish.

‘There was…it wasn’t…nothing like…it…not me…it wasn’t anything I did! Good God…’ Not a man Thomas was in the habit of invoking. ‘…it was NOTHING like that.’

‘Alright.’ Moore said, regarding his face carefully and evidently satisfied with what he found there. ‘What else.’

‘There was a Turk. A diplomat.’ Thomas said dolefully. ‘I tried it on with him, but he wasn’t interested.’ He sniffed. ‘Then he blackmailed me, he wanted to know where…something…was.’

‘Something?’

‘I’d rather not…’

‘The door, Mr Smith. It’s there if you wish to use it. Do not waste my time.’ Moore said in an almost sing song voice as he paced the small space between the desk and the window.

‘A girl. He wanted me to show him the way to a girl’s bedroom.’

Moore laughed out loud at that. A bitter and resonating sound that filled the room.

‘You…are…appalling.’ He said between chuckles. ‘My goodness what can one do but laugh? Need I tell you what that makes you complicit in?’

‘No, Sir.’ Said Thomas miserably.

‘And this Duke of yours?’ Moore pressed. ‘Tell me, what selfish act of yours compelled your one extended dalliance to come to a close?’

Thomas looked dully back at him, looking as close to tears as a man could with a dry face. ‘He thought I was going to blackmail him.’ Thomas scratched absently at the side of his neck, so hard he came away with skin under the fingernails, and shrugged, both in an attempt to keep the imminent tears at bay. ‘He was right…’

Thomas looked entreatingly to Moore.

‘…What’s wrong with me?’

The last part came out like the soft prayer of a child.

Thomas waited for Moore’s verdict; too drained to externalise how fearful he was to receive it.

None was forthcoming.

‘Mr Smith, I have heard quite enough…’ Said Moore, evidently judging that Thomas was now engaging in strong enough introspection and flagellation without further input. Moore set his spent pipe on the corner of the desk and moved to the cabinet by Thomas’s side. ‘…I am now certain that you will benefit from a more…advanced…method of correction.’

He brought out a wooden box and brought it back to the desk with him. Sinking down into his chair, he popped the clasp open.

‘Now this is not for everyone, Mr Smith.’ Said Moore. ‘And it is no good without the willpower and self-reflection we shall build upon in our session tomorrow. But for someone like you…’ Moore paused to swallow heavily. ‘…someone who presents a danger…’ He lingered on the last word a moment. ‘…to others. Not to mention to himself. A deluded and lonely man. A depraved and abnormal creature…’ Moore tutted to himself. He brought three tiny metal bottles out of the box and arranged them on the table between them. ‘There is this.’ He indicted the bottles. ‘And I would be remiss in my duty of care if I did not make you aware of this option.’

‘What…’ Thomas said softly. ‘What have you got there?’


	7. Chapter 7

‘It is a revolution in corrective treatment.’ Said Moore, leaning in.

Thomas nodded without realising he was doing so.

‘This…’ Moore picked up one of the metal bottles between finger and thumb, raising it up, tilting it a little sideways, letting the light glint from its shiny opaque surface. Thomas’s eyes followed his every move; chin tilting upwards as Moore raised his hand. ‘…is a remarkable thing. It is a chemical compound that represents years of development and has been shown to have success in removing the…unwanted urges…that characterise your condition.’ Moore looked to Thomas’s eyes as they remained fixed on the tiny metal bottle held aloft. He smiled at the rapt level of attention to be found in Thomas’s expression.

‘That simple?’ Said Thomas.

Moore allowed his smile to drop as Thomas’s attention returned to his face, replacing it with a look of solemnity.

‘Well, Mr Smith, one could hardly call it “simple”.’ Said Moore, giving a soft rueful laugh. ‘Three doses a day, every day, are required, some users have experienced nausea and loss of appetite in the first instance, and then there…’

‘But this can make me normal?’ Thomas interjected, pointing in disbelief to the two little bottles before him on the table as Moore continued to roll the other between finger and thumb.

Moore shot him a look of absolute grot. Thomas hushed up and shrank back into his chair.

‘As I was about to say…’ Said Moore pointedly. ‘…before that interruption, there is also the issue of price and supply.’ He kept Thomas waiting a moment longer before adding. ‘Yes, this can make you normal, as you put it. But I hope you will appreciate that the destruction of the urge itself is only half of the battle before you. You will need to continue with the process we have begun here today to alter your negative thinking in such a way as to enable you to build a new and better life.’

‘Of course.’ Said Thomas quietly, head giving a little twitch as though to nod again, his eyes too afraid of losing sight of the bottles to fully commit to the movement. ‘Pardon me, Sir, but why is this not known? If there is a way to cure…’

‘Well that comes back again to the issue of price and supply.’ Moore replied, finally replacing the bottle back on the table. ‘Our organisation is the sole importer of this product to England you see. And the price means that this treatment is well out of reach of the vast majority. It would be cruel indeed to advertise such a, frankly, miraculous product to those who cannot hope to benefit from it.’

‘How much is it?’ Thomas asked, an icy feeling once again creeping across his chest, stealing his ability to breathe as deeply, or speak as loudly, as he would like.

‘Do not worry, Mr Smith. I believe it is within your reach.’ Said Moore, plucking a piece of paper and a pencil from the desk drawer. ‘I understand that you work in domestic service?’

Thomas blinked at that, briefly at a loss as to how Moore had surmised this particular piece of information given the fake name he had given and the plain suit he had deliberately worn for the meeting. Then he remembered the conversation that had gone earlier. He supposed it wasn’t a great leap to deduce that references to a proximity to a footman, and mention of catering for well-to-do guests, were made in the context of domestic service.

Still, Thomas found it unnerving that he had inadvertently given away such information. But despite his mental assurances to himself that he would be more careful in the future, he was too fearful of the consequences of denying Moore under the present circumstances.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘And I presume you are above the rank of footman by now…’ Said Moore, loosely indicating towards Thomas. ‘…so shall we say valet…’ Moore watched Thomas’s face carefully. ‘…or butler?’

‘I’m…I’m somewhere between the two, you might say.’ Said Thomas. ‘I’m designated under butler.’

‘So say, fifty five a year or so?’

‘What?’

‘Your salary, Mr Smith.’

‘Oh, sixty.’ Thomas responded automatically, without taking stock of the question or its implications.

‘Very good.’ Said Moore absently, scribbling at the paper.

He sat back, looking satisfied, before turning the paper about and pushing it towards Thomas.

‘This is the figure I propose. I think you will find it achievable.’

‘That’s not all that bad.’ Thomas said, wincing internally but secure in the knowledge that he could easily cover the expense with what he had in the bank.

Moore coughed awkwardly. ‘You realise this is a monthly figure?’

‘Oh my…’ Thomas said softly. ‘How would I…?’

‘You would designate a portion of your salary to be paid directly to our organisation at the end of each month, or portion it out weekly, whichever is more convenient.’

‘But…’ Thomas began, looking in despair at the figure.

‘Yes?’ Moore prompted tersely.

‘If I spend everything on this…I won’t have any money for this new life I’m supposed to be trying to have.’ He said quietly, almost apologetically; though whether he was apologising to himself or Moore for the financial impediment he didn’t know. His mind frantically searched for a solution to the conundrum.

‘You must look at it this way, Mr Smith, without this assistance you will never have your “new life”.

‘Now…’ Moore pulled the piece of paper back towards him. ‘…first things first, I will be needing the name and address to make the invoices and deliveries out to.’

‘Mr Thomas Barrow.’ Said Thomas dejectedly. ‘And you’ll want to make them out to the village post office in Ripon. That’s in Yorkshire.’

 


	8. Chapter 8

Thomas sat on his bed in the Inn that night turning a little metal bottle over and over in his hand.

He had walked back from The Centre in a daze. His mind befuddled and stretched into silence by the ups and downs of the day. Though it had only been mid-afternoon, he felt the need for bed like never before.

He had half-promised himself that he would return briefly to his room to freshen up and then head out to take advantage of the rare opportunity of being in London, perhaps to go walking around the parks or the river, or take in a show while he was there.

But it hadn’t happened.

Instead he had taken out the three bottles (one for that night and two for the day after – the rest of his first month’s instalment to be sent by post to Downton) sat them upon the small chest of drawers that doubled as a nightstand and then sat himself, coat and all, on the bed next to it.

He had remained that way for hours, eventually summoning the will to remove his coat and hat and set them on the hooks by the door, but otherwise motionless.

His head was full, and more than a little sore from the day’s events, but he could not let his mind linger and recall the day just yet. There was a pressing decision to make and he could not broke the idea of thinking on anything else until he had made up his mind.

The discovery of the medicine, Stein’s compound as Moore referred to it, was an unexpected and blessed occurrence – even given the unanticipated, and severe, financial burden it would place on him. He couldn’t quite believe his luck; having something tangible, tested and real, medical even, to assist him in what he knew would be a hard journey.

But now that he had it here, within reach, he was hesitant.

He looked carefully at the innocuous looking bottles, with their little stoppers just ripe for the popping.

Here, quite possibly, was the thing that would permanently change him.

And that notion, as opposed to the idea that he could alter himself through months of constant study and effort, was paralytic rather than enabling. In one moment, in one gulp, he could remove everything that he had been. It was exactly what he wanted, or what he had thought he wanted, so why was he hesitating?

It seemed too abrupt, too final. He needed time to reconcile, to say a proper goodbye even, to the man he had been.

Part of him urged that he could drink it with immunity, because the effects couldn’t possibly be as Moore had claimed. But then, he asked himself, why drink it and pay money for it if he didn’t believe it would work.

He wanted it to work, he admitted to himself. But at the same time was he ready to let go?

Head now absolutely pounding, he took it upon himself to head downstairs to ask the inn keeper if he might have use of the telephone. The man grudgingly agreed after the offer of a few coins, but made no move to leave the room while Thomas made the call.

Thomas didn’t mind; the man’s insolence gave him something else to think about. And while he was on the phone to Carson, letting him know that he would stay in London the following night, instead of heading back in the morning (something Thomas had never been intending to do), he laid it on very thick with regards to the condition of his sick father with the intention of making the sour inn keeper regret his treatment of him.

It worked, and Thomas returned to his room with some sandwiches courtesy of the remains of the evening meal, which he had missed due to his deliberations.

Thomas was confronted with the sight of the tiny bottles the moment he entered the room. His eyes went straight to them, reminding him, challenging him.

Setting the sandwiches down by the bedside, Thomas grabbed up one of the bottles and, without giving himself any further time to think, drained the contents.

They very nearly came straight back up.

Thomas gave a wet and undignified belch as his throat violently attempted to reject the syrupy liquid, and collapsed forwards onto his knees as he simultaneously struggled to swallow it down and gasp for air.

Immediately he began to shake, a weakness coming across his limbs as his body attempted to put all available energy into inducing him to vomit.

He felt frozen from within despite his hand coming back wet when brushed against his forehead.

As the liquid reached further, his stomach contracted painfully; attempting to re-start the task that his throat had been unable to accomplish – that of ejecting the unwelcome intrusion as speedily as possible.

Hands bound tight over his stomach as he twitched in discomfort, he pulled himself over to the bed and to the promise of warmth that the woollen covers offered.

Kicking off his shoes as an afterthought as he clambered in, loosening his trouser buttons to enable him to rub at his belly, but otherwise remaining fully clothed, he curled in on himself and put everything he had into keeping the liquid down.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Thomas gargled something incoherent in response to the innkeeper’s wake-up call at 6am, hoping that the man would interpret it as a negative response as to whether he wanted him to come in and light the fire in his room. He waited until he heard the man’s footsteps shuffling off down the corridor before attempting to get up.

The dampness of the sheets after a night of sleepless fever turned his empty stomach, while the move from horizontal to upright (despite his care to take it slowly) made his head spin. He sat on the side of the bed for a moment, hands either side to grip the mattress for support.

The softness of the mattress, something he had been too sick to note the previous evening, irritated him as did the knowledge that he would have to sleep in the same inadequate bed the following night. He grumbled aloud at the discomfort resulting from the buttons and seams of his tightly tailored suit pressing into him as he slept.

Rising from the bed, the world swimming a little as he did so, he undressed as carefully as he could and inspected the damage to his suit.

Structurally it was sound, but wrinkled into oblivion and smelling so pungent that he balked at the idea of getting back into it. But there was no choice. He hadn’t brought another; a large bag as he left the Abbey would have been an unmistakeable sign to Carson that he would be staying longer than proposed.

He wished now he had got up while the innkeeper was still about. He could have asked him to press the suit for him. Now he was faced with the prospect of going out to hunt for the man while in his underthings, or at best his thin pyjamas if he retrieved them from his carry case, or try to find a way to tend to the matter himself.

Thankfully, a lifetime in domestic service had furnished him with the odd quick fix that came in handy on such occasions.

A short while later the surface of the small chest of drawers and the (very carefully cleaned) underside of the small kettle provided for the room, boiled after the speedy creation of a small but hot fire in the grating, had his suit looking somewhat presentable.

The smell was still an issue, but was improved somewhat by the pressing and Thomas trusted his cologne to do the rest.

Freshly dressed, he splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the small shaving mirror by the basin. The sight was a shock. His skin had taken on a pallid colour and puffy texture, his face looked yellow and several sizes larger than it had done the previous day.  If he hadn’t known any better he would say his body was fighting off an infection.

But then, he thought, looking over to the two bottles he had moved from the chest of drawers to lay on the bedspread, he supposed he was. He berated himself for having thought that his body would accept the correctional treatment without complaint.

He glanced towards the sandwich left from the night before and wrinkled his nose, it looked highly unpalatable in the light of day (not to mention after a night sitting out for little creatures to nibble on, less than a foot from his head), so despite not having eaten in almost a day Thomas tossed the food unceremoniously into the fire and left the plate on the floor by the door for the innkeeper to collect.

His throat gave an uncomfortable contraction in anticipation as he turned his attention back to the two bottles on the bed.

Thomas took up one of them and tucked it into his jacket pocket, reasoning that the session at The Centre was due to run until after lunch so he had best take the midday dose with him. Then he raised the other bottle up to face height, regarding it with a distinct sense of trepidation.

There were still two hours before he was due to meet the others, so he reasoned there would be enough time to compose himself before the session if he took it now. Although an unkind voice reminded him that he hadn’t fully recovered from his first dose; and that was over twelve hours ago.

This time he tried to drink it, rather than tip it straight down his throat. He reasoned that the violent reaction from his innards the previous evening might have been due to surprise rather than anything inherently wrong with the medicine itself. The experience was easier this time, but largely because he was able to anticipate the immediate urge to upchuck (and consequently pre-emptively guard against it by rapidly swallowing in between gulps for air) and because he was distracted by a strange metallic taste on his tongue that he hadn’t noticed the previous evening.

He had to kneel on the floor for a few moments before feeling well enough to get back to his feet. But when he did rise it was with no small sense of accomplishment.

In fact he was even able to summon a smile, despite the skin of his face still feeling oddly thick, as he brushed the dust off his knees, grabbed his coat and hat, and headed for the door.


	10. Chapter 10

He felt like a schoolboy. Or more specifically, himself as a schoolboy on one particular day in his past that would be forever seared on his memory as the most miserable six hours of his life (well, at least until adulthood). He had fallen prey to a particularly vigorous flu on one of the rare occasions when his mother was away visiting with a friend, and so it had fallen upon his father to make the decision as to whether or not he was well enough for school. Of course, as if by means of punishment for all the times Thomas had managed to trick his mother into believing he was suffering from a malady when there was none, his father sent him to school.

Thomas had spent the day in a strange, painful, haze. Unable to be attentive for more than a few moments at a time, constantly caught between sleeping and waking. His head heavy, his stomach churning, the seconds had gone by like minutes and the hours were eternal.

So it was now.

Sitting in the same meeting room as the previous day, Thomas was struggling to stay on his seat and even more so to pay attention to what was being said. He was sure that the others could see his inattentiveness and fidgeting, something which caused deep embarrassment as it was his ardent wish to engage with the session despite his protesting body, but the occasional reassuring (even pleased) glances from Moore bolstered him up to swallow his discomfort.

Thankfully the session was distinctly less physical than the previous day. There was no standing to be had, which was good. Although Thomas thought more than once throughout the excruciatingly long hours that he might have liked to jump up (or carefully rise) from his seat for a moment to take a turn about the room and get the blood flowing to his limbs.

It was the same group as the previous day, bar the tradesman who had walked out at the beginning of their first session, which was good. Thomas couldn’t begin to imagine how the group members’ solemnity and inability to meet one another’s eyes following yesterday’s half-naked public flagellations could be explained to a new member. In fact he felt a deep loathing for the hypothetical new member, despite their being none, because *he* hadn’t gone through the proper process.

That word, over and over again.

The group sat, largely in silence except when called upon to offer thoughts, listening to Moore extol the proper process they must follow to tread the path they had chosen.

As Thomas sat, he found himself thinking more than once that the steps in ‘The Process’ seemed ludicrously simple.

He didn’t need Moore to tell him to avoid ‘deviant haunts’ for example; he himself hadn’t frequented such places since his very (very) early days as a footman, prior to learning that there was more amusement to be had in ‘normal’ venues that offered a more refined class of potential companion (not to mention a greater sense of achievement when one managed to make a connection). No he didn’t need to be told that avoiding places where deviant men, like they used to be, still frequented.

Despite his nausea he hadn’t been able to help a small snort of derision. In fact it was most likely because of his nausea that the sound was able to escape his lips before his brain could halt it by considering what a spectacularly bad idea it was to deride anything offered within those walls.

The moment the sound was out of his mouth, Moore’s focus went entirely to him.

‘Please share with the group what amuses you about this matter?’ Said Moore smoothly, his voice low and careful; a voice the entire group by now recognised as a portent for danger.

‘Well it’s…it’s obvious isn’t it?’ Thomas said helplessly, unable to find a lie.

Moore clicked his tongue, tutting at his ignorance. ‘You miss the point entirely, Mr Smith…’ Thomas gave thanks that Moore had deigned to continue using his pseudonym in public, despite the distraction of his internal dread. ‘…The problem is not that this step in the process is obvious, the problem is that it is very difficult for some…’

Across the circle the married businessman, with self-confessed issues in fulfilling his marital obligations, shifted about highly uncomfortably and turned a light shade of red.

‘…and how do you think such people may feel, Mr Smith…’ Moore continued. ‘…to hear you dismiss their struggles as so ‘obvious’ a step to take as to be unworthy of discussion and affirmation.’

Thomas, looking towards the businessman, could only mutter a soft. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So I should hope so.’ Said Moore. ‘Now, tell us Mr Smith, about your own efforts to avoid unnecessary temptations. We are to take it from your earlier response that you do not visit locations that are known meeting places for unfortunates?’  

‘Yes, sir.’ Said Thomas.

‘And you reject advances made to you?’

‘Well…’ Thomas swallowed. ‘…there hasn’t really been any of that lately...’

‘Would you now, were such advances to be made?’ Moore interjected impatiently.

Thomas paused a dangerous moment before replying.

‘Yes.’

‘And do you avoid those who, despite not having made advances towards your person, you find to be a temptation?’

Thomas knew better than to answer that there was no one in his current place of residence that could rightly be deemed a temptation. Moore had the familiar potent look in his eyes and manner that absolutely would not broke time wasting.

‘I do, sir.’

Moore nodded approvingly, although Thomas noted there was something else besides satisfaction lurking behind Moore’s expression; a kind of creeping portent of inevitable triumph that seemed to be disconnected from the outward show of approval for Thomas’s benefit.

‘You don’t sit with them?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Go out to smoke with them?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Write to them?’

‘N…’ Thomas halted.

‘Mr Smith?’

Thomas panicked. True, the anticipated letters from Jimmy hadn’t come. But the thought of beginning a correspondence with Jimmy when he wrote, and Thomas was sure at some point he would, had been one of the few uplifting thoughts that had sustained him throughout his recent loneliness.

But nothing had happened with Jimmy, Thomas thought. Nothing had actually happened. At least, nothing had happened with Jimmy’s consent (Thomas winced internally at that). So did it count?

‘Mr Smith?’ Moore repeated, more firmly this time.

‘What if it’s someone that…doesn’t find you interesting like that…’ Thomas said. ‘But you…find them interesting…like that.’ He concluded lamely.

Moore looked wryly towards him with a raised eyebrow and a barely concealed expression of calculated judgement.

Thomas felt his face fall miserably, his shoulders sloping further downwards with each breath he took as he waited for the verdict.

Moore offered none.

The awkward silence pervaded about the room until the tradesman piped up. ‘I’d say you already know the answer to that, mate.’

The words were surprisingly un-malicious, especially given their stony interaction the previous day, but fell like the knell of doom all the same.

‘Now…’ Said Moore, with a loud clap to break the malaise that had fallen over the room. ‘…let us move on to the next stage in the process. Once you remove the male temptation from your life, you must replace it.’ He said, waggling a finger in the air, speaking in such an animated way as to have the whole group on the edge of their seats. ‘You must replace it with the most sublime comfort the Good Lord has seen fit to provide on this earth - the company of a good woman.’

Thomas didn’t think he was alone in finding ‘women’ a disappointing conclusion to Moore’s speech, but he continued to take mental note of Moore’s words throughout the rest of the segment; and on through the rest of the day.

He didn’t get the chance to take his midday dose of medicine. The talk continued throughout and Thomas didn’t like to draw attention to himself by excusing himself from the room, especially after Moore’s caution that the treatment he had been made party to was ‘not for everyone’ and would be cruel to dangle in front of the eyes of those unable to afford it.

He reasoned that he could take the dose that evening. After all, Moore hadn’t given him enough for both midday and evening, and his next dose was currently in the post on the way to Ripon for him to collect the next day.

With no lunch or bathroom breaks, and no smoking either (despite Moore occasionally packing his pipe as the afternoon wore on, the men were nervous of enquiring as to whether they could dip into their own supply), the men reached the end of the session with a sense of momentous relief.

Thomas, for his part, wouldn’t have believed his head could ever be this full. His morning sickness had been replaced by another bout of disorientation accompanied by a powerful headache.

But he felt good. He felt potential. The potential for genuine change in his life.

And that was as good a chance for happiness as he had had in years. How could he be anything but happy?

Looking around, not all men shared his optimism. But that didn’t matter. He was on the right path.

As the men stood to gather their belongings and shunt their seats to the side of the room, an older gentleman appeared at the door.

‘Ah, marvellous…’ Moore exclaimed, welcomingly. ‘…if you would care to come this way?’

Moore ushered the man into his office. Thomas surmised, by the way in which the young man who had been part of the group session hurried to follow him, and by the looks of disdain the older man shot to all occupants of the room save Moore, that this must be the boy’s father.

Thomas felt happy for the boy. He imagined that the boy and his father would likely be offered the same chance that he had been offered in Moore’s office, and he had no doubt that the boy’s father would see to it that his son got the medicine he needed.

‘Got a long way to travel?’ Said the rotund man, trapped in the corner as Thomas retrieved his coat and consequently feeling compelled to offer up something by way of conversation.

‘Not tonight.’ Thomas said dully. ‘I go up north tomorrow.’

‘So you’re staying in London?’ Said the tradesman as he reached unapologetically between the two of them to retrieve his coat.

‘Yes.’ Thomas replied, moving towards the door with his coat in hand, without further comment.

He noticed the tradesman falling into step beside him as he made his way to the front door, but lacked the energy to speak further.

The two of them walked out onto the street together, both immediately going into their pockets for a cigarette the moment their feet hit the pavement.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Give me a sec.’ Said the tradesman unexpectedly before turning about and beginning to walk away down the street.

Thomas frowned, glancing over his shoulder in anticipation of finding the tradesman had been speaking to someone else. He turned back in confusion, watching the man as he walked further away.

‘What…?’ Thomas began, uselessly given the distance between them.

‘Careful there!’ Exclaimed the fat man, appearing on the steps above him, just seconds before Thomas almost put his lit cigarette end onto the coat of the businessman who had followed him out.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Thomas mumbled. He took a step back to allow them both to pass.

The businessman offered an unwilling and stern smile as he went, while the rotund man theatrically tipped the brim of his hat to Thomas before sweeping off across the road.

Thomas turned his attention back to the tradesman, just in time to see the man vanish into the gap between two buildings.

He looked in the other direction, towards the streets that would lead him back to the inn, debating just being on his merry way. He didn’t think his pounding head could take conversation at present anyhow.

But to turn away would render his confusion permanent. In the same way that the departure of the two other men represented a final parting, none of them even knew each other’s real names, if he left the tradesman behind now he would never know why he had asked him to wait for him.

He didn’t care. Not really.

He flexed his gloved hand.

And the man made him _deeply_ uncomfortable.

But he could not fully trust his head, thick with thoughts crammed throughout the day, thoughts that he hadn’t yet had time to process, in its assertions that to walk away would be the correct choice.  

What if the man had something important to say?

Thomas clenched up his gloved hand into a fist, his cigarette still dangling, burned half-way down but largely unsmoked, in the other hand.

What if there was to be an…

Thomas couldn’t quite bring himself to add the word ‘apology’ because he knew, with utter certainty, that whatever the man wanted to say to him would not revolve around apologising for an inference he had barely made, regarding something that could rightfully have garnered a bullet to the temple.

Thomas threw away the wasted cigarette and started down the street after the tradesman. He would find him, take his leave, and go. And, if the man had anything earth shatteringly important to say, he could do so in the few seconds it would take Thomas to say goodbye to him.

As he approached the small alley the tradesman had vanished into Thomas reassured himself of the workability of that particular course of action.

‘Oh!’ As he rounded the corner of the alley Thomas was confronted with the sight of the man in question enthusiastically pissing up the side of the building, cigarette clutched between his teeth and an expression of barely concealed euphoria on his face.

Thomas’s toes found half a broken bottle and sent it clattering noisily towards the alley wall.

 The tradesman looked towards him in surprise.

Thomas realised, too late, that perhaps he really ought to have given the man the ‘sec’ he had asked for.

‘Hello again.’ The tradesman said, managing to keep the cigarette in place even as his lips and tongue moved to speak. His hands remained occupied below the belt as he continued to decorate the bricks with vigour.

‘Sorry!’ Thomas blurted out.

‘Oh no, you go right ahead.’ Said the man, voice surprisingly un-impeded by the cigarette he seemed determined to continue smoking, indicating a place on the wall beside him with a nod of his head.

‘I wasn’t…um…’ Thomas averted his gaze, staring down at the general filth of the alley floor.

Mercifully, the echoing sounds of the tradesman’s relief came to a halt soon after.  

‘Don’t mind me…’ Said the tradesman, appearing in Thomas’s peripheral vision with his goods safely tucked away and the stub of the cigarette resting between the fingers of his left hand. ‘…you must be bursting and all.’

‘No. I’m fine.’ Thomas responded honestly. A lack of food and drink since the previous morning had his bodily functions largely on lock down. Not that he would have taken the man up on his offer anyway. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘I’m Janek...’ Said the tradesman, sticking his right hand forward for Thomas to shake. ‘…Janek Biel.’

Thomas looked down at the proffered hand, then over to the wall, then back down to the hand in disdain.

‘Right…’ Janek said, withdrawing his hand gingerly. ‘Sorry.’

Janek took one final pull on his cigarette before discarding it, to burn out instantly, in the newly formed puddle behind him.

‘Anyway, I’m Janek.’

Thomas nodded.

‘And you are…’ Janek continued, grimacing a little at the effort he was being required to put into the conversation.

‘Mr Smith.’ Replied Thomas curtly. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

Janek went to roll his eyes but caught himself just in time to maintain the illusion of airy brightness he was evidently attempting to cultivate between them.

‘I wondered if you might want to go and get something to eat?’

‘With you?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Thomas replied. ‘Was that all?’

‘Well…’ Janek began again. ‘…how about a drink then?’

‘No.’ Thomas said flatly, shaking his head at the absurdity of the request, despite the detrimental effect on his already painful headache, as he moved to leave the alley. ‘Why would you want to anyway?’ He said, halting in his tracks. ‘Seems like there’s a problem between you and me the way I see it.’

‘Well maybe…but I thought…um…’ Janek thrust his hands in his pockets and took a few awkward steps forwards. Thomas remained motionless and stern. ‘…letting bygones be bygones…and all that…and…’

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Janek gave a snort, the meek expression on his face giving way to one of vivid certainty. ‘Alright, alright…’ He said, this time rolling his eyes for real. ‘…I don’t like you.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I _really_ don’t like you. And I think you know why.’

‘Look, whatever you’re implying…’ Thomas began, unconsciously moving his gloved hand behind him out of view.

‘I don’t need to imply fuck all. You should have seen the look on your face.’ Janek bit back, silencing him. ‘Anyway…’ Janek continued in a more subdued manner, visibly trying to reign in his feelings on that particular matter. He sighed. ‘…I was wondering if you might do me a favour?’

Thomas remained just long enough for Janek to get the full benefit of his incredulous expression before turning tail and stomping away.

‘Hey, wait!’ Janek called, taking off after him.

Thomas kept walking, taking longer strides than usual, taking pleasure in Janek having to trot to keep up.

‘Won’t you even hear what it is?’ Janek whispered, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself in the crowded street but only partially succeeding.

‘By all means tell me so I know what I’m refusing.’ Said Thomas, declining to slow his pace even as Janek tugged briefly at his coat sleeve in an effort to slow him down. He reasoned that anyone viewing the scene from afar would assume from the respective quality of their clothing that Janek was a street beggar attempting to lift a few coins from him. Maybe if he was lucky Janek might even be arrested.

That thought drew a small smile as Thomas continued to power walk down the main street.   

‘I need a place to stay.’ Janek hissed. ‘I didn’t realise we’d go on so long today, and I missed my train…’ He panted as he increased his pace to keep up with Thomas’s purposeful strides. ‘…and it’s money for a room tonight or another train tomorrow…’ He grabbed at Thomas’s sleeve again, more firmly this time. ‘…and I can’t have both.’

‘Then sleep in the bloody park.’ Thomas retorted, halting to bat Janek’s hand away.

‘And get robbed blind?’ Janek replied, a hint of genuine panic behind his eyes at that.

‘What could _you_ possibly have that’s worth stealing?’

The harshness of the words surprised Thomas even as he uttered them.

Yes he had spent his entire adult life defending his social position amongst his colleagues in the house. But never before could he remember having actually disparaged someone for their place in society.

The fact that it was unfair made it worse.

Yes, on appearance, the man’s clothes were poor and the fabric balding in places, but Thomas was well aware he was a working man. And some kind of skilled labourer at that.   

He watched the energy drop out of Janek’s face with a strange feeling of numbness.

Janek shrank back from him, narrowly avoiding getting mown down by a passing banker as he did so, evidently attempting to gather himself together enough to bid Thomas adieu with some semblance of dignity.

‘Where are we going for this drink then?’ Thomas said.

Janek looked darkly back at him.

‘Look I’m not saying you’re staying but…’ Thomas sighed. ‘…today’s been bad and I _could_ use a drink. Think we both could.’

‘You’re right there.’ Janek replied sourly, but he followed as Thomas led the way down the street.


	12. Chapter 12

‘So where’s your name from?’ Said Thomas, taking a stab at breaking the dull silence that had persisted since they had both uttered a quiet ‘thank you’ to the man who served their pints. ‘It’s not one I’ve heard before.’

‘Depends.’ Said Janek dryly. ‘Where’s “Mr Smith” from?’

Thomas sat back in his chair, not bothering to respond. He occupied himself during the ensuing silence by watching the patrons standing over at the bar as he sipped his beer.

‘It’s Polish.’ Janek grudgingly conceded. ‘Mother’s side of the family.’

‘Have you been in England long?’ Thomas said, letting his attention come back to the table. ‘The way you speak you sound like you’ve been here…’

‘All my life.’ Janek interjected sharply. ‘Yes I have.’

‘Alright then.’ Said Thomas, sighing at having caught another nerve. The beer was going some way to alleviating the emptiness in his stomach, but he found himself craving something by way of food; if only to get his energy levels back up. But he was unwilling to prolong the awkward encounter any longer than necessary. He reasoned he could order something to his room later that night.

‘You ever going to tell me your name?’ Said Janek, taking two gulps of beer to every one of Thomas’s sips.

Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Fair enough.’ Said Janek, emulating Thomas’s posture slumped back in his seat.

For a while the two of them cast their eyes about the bar, hunting for little distractions, interesting faces, eye-catching labels, that they could pretend to let occupy their attention. Every now and again one’s gaze would come back to the opposite man at precisely the same time the other would look to them, but such moments were fleeting and did nothing to rekindle the conversation.

With an exaggerated humph, and with less than a quarter of his pint remaining, Janek reached for a cigarette.

He noticed Thomas’s eyes hungrily following the progress of the match as he lit it.

‘What, you need my permission to have one of your own?’ Said Janek, blowing out a long stream of smoke to the ceiling. He took in the way Thomas was sitting; one hand holding his pint, the other buried in his lap. ‘Ah…I see.’ He took another drag. ‘There’s not much point in you hiding your hand from me, you know.’

If anything Thomas’s hand disappeared further into his lap at that.

‘How did you know about my hand?’ Said Thomas quietly.

Janek snorted bitterly. ‘Something just bad enough to get you sent home but bad enough to stop you living life? Not hard to recognise.’

‘But you don’t know that.’ Thomas persisted. ‘You haven’t seen it. For all you know it could be very bad.’

‘Well it’s obviously not bad enough to stop you working your buttons, is it?’

Thomas felt his face grow uncomfortably hot.

Janek stared unseeing at the pint glass in his hand, cigarette burning away in the other.

‘I lost three brothers.’ He said, muttering into the pint glass as he raised it to his lips.

‘I’m sorry.’ Said Thomas. He quickly added ‘about that’, being disinclined, whatever his misery, to take responsibility for deaths that had nothing to do with him.

‘And then I get home…’ Said Janek, soliloquising as much to himself as to Thomas. ‘…and I’m working back down at the Canning, sorting out ship’s boilers like I ever did, all regular and pleasant like…’ He briefly paused to smoke. ‘…then this foreman comes by…’ Janek bit his upper lip between his teeth, gaze still blank and forwards, fingers tightening into a fist from which his cigarette protruded. ‘…and he’s bragging about how he made it through the war with only a little limp to show for it…I see him showing this bloke how he held the gun so’s no one would suspect and…’

He fell silent.

‘What did you do?’ Thomas unwillingly prompted.

‘What _we_ did. Me and the dockers.’ Said Janek with a smile that turned Thomas’s stomach. ‘Well, us and blunt metal.’  

‘I don’t like you.’ Thomas said abruptly. ‘You said it before about me, and now I’ve got to say it about you. I _don’t_ like you.’

‘He deserved a beating.’

‘I don’t see the point in beating anyone.’

‘Useful soldier you must have been.’ Said Janek looking scornfully at him. ‘No wonder you wanted to get your delicate self back home as soon as possible.’ He snatched up what was left of his pint, muttering ‘coward’ into the glass as he drained it.

‘I was a medic.’ Said Thomas gruffly, keeping the volume of his voice in check with great difficulty. ‘I saved men while you were off “beating” them. And I had no gun. Just had to run out and try to pull people back when they had bits blown out of them and they couldn’t go any further.’ He leaned in across the table to speak directly into Janek’s face. ‘And I did it for _two years_ , so you wipe that _damned_ look off your face.’

Thomas sat back down heavily into his chair. Janek remained seated and silent in his.

Both aware that their little altercation had drawn some attention, they stayed subdued and still until those around them had turned their attention back to their own conversations.

‘I should probably be going.’ Janek said quietly.

‘I think you should.’ Thomas concurred, feeling lightheaded at his previous exertion and looking forward to nothing more than his bed.

His overly soft, sweat soaked, bed.

His shoulders gave an involuntary shudder.  

Across the table from him, Janek hadn’t moved.

‘You can’t be serious!’ Thomas blurted out.

‘What?’ Said Janek with a sheepish shrug.

‘You still think there’s a chance I’d let you stay with me?’

‘Honestly, no.’ Said Janek. ‘…But it’s warm in here.’

‘There’s your solution then.’ Said Thomas humourlessly. ‘Find yourself a pub. Get drunk. Pass out on the table. Maybe they’ll let you sleep til morning.’

‘Please.’

‘No.’

‘Look, I don’t know anyone here…’

‘You should have asked one of the others, shouldn’t you?’ Thomas retorted, not sure if he ought to rush to finish his own pint to bring the bartender over to get the glasses to hurry Janek on his way. There was the unhappy chance the barkeep would bring over two fresh ones when he came and _that_ opened up a prospect Thomas just couldn’t face.

‘Which one?’ Said Janek. ‘That snooty bloke was heading home to his wife, little boy blue whatever his name was who had his father to worry about, that fat man would have probably hardly believed his luck if I’d asked…if you get my drift…and…’

‘I don’t get your drift.’ Said Thomas, lying through his teeth because he had _exactly_ the same feeling about the gentleman in question. ‘That sort of thing shouldn’t be going through his head, or yours, should it?’

‘Come off it. I’d have woken up with a pillow case strapped round my nethers, and him trying to paint me like a fucking cherub.’

Thomas snorted most of his mouthful of beer back into the glass.

Janek smiled triumphantly, suppressing a snort of his own.

‘Do…’ Thomas said quietly, once his laughter had subsided. ‘Do you think it is possible though? What Mr Moore’s been saying?’

‘Of course.’ Thomas blinked at Janek’s surprisingly robust response. ‘Of course there’s a choice. Only thing that miffs me off is that I spent money coming all the way to bloody London for a bloke to tell me that. I’m a fool really. It’s so obvious.’

‘It’s not that obvious to me, if I’m honest.’ Said Thomas weakly.

‘Right, yes.’ Said Janek. ‘Mr Moore did say there’s different things people find difficult didn’t he?’

Thomas nodded.

‘It’s all I’ve known. So it’s hard…’ Thomas paused as the barkeeper came over, making no protest as two fresh pints were set down on the table between him and Janek. ‘…to think that it’s something that could just go away.’

‘So you’ve always known?’

Thomas nodded again.

‘Gosh.’ Said Janek. ‘That’s strange. I’d never even thought about it until…well, something happened and _then_ I thought about it.’

‘Something happened at the boarding house?’

‘Yes.’ Said Janek with a nervous laugh. ‘Christ, I forgot we already know each other’s secrets.’

‘Some.’ Said Thomas ruefully, nudging one of the pints towards Janek.

Janek’s laugh became more raucous. ‘I don’t have any more secrets of that kind to share.’

‘So you suck of one bloke…’ Thomas halted, surprised at his coarse words and realising that he really ought to have made sure no one was listening _before_ uttering them. He glanced at the pint in front of him and resolved to let it be for a while before drinking it. ‘…and you think you need this?’ He indicated the room they were sitting in, but both men were aware Thomas was referring to the correctional course at The Centre.

Janek leaned forwards, forearms pressed to the table top, and motioned for Thomas to do the same.

‘I enjoyed it. It was…’ He said, swallowing heavily and licking his lips as he spoke. Thomas couldn’t help but grimace internally at that, although he suspected the moves were made unconsciously on Janek’s part. ‘…just…’ Janek was unable to find the words, his mind briefly elsewhere to a place of sated hunger that looked so blissful in his facial expression that for a moment Thomas wished he could join him there. 

‘But…’ Thomas swallowed involuntarily, choking a little as he caught himself in the act. ‘…why did you come here?’

‘Family.’ Said Janek, all traces of bliss expunged to be replaced by a look that was grim, dutiful and determined. ‘I never had to think about it before.’ He drank half of his pint in a single, gulping swallow. ‘But now I’m the last one left. With my brothers gone…’ He coughed through a catch in his voice. ‘…and my mother getting older, and my dad long gone…’ He sighed deeply. ‘…they’ll be nothing left.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Children. A new generation. Someone to carry on the name.’ Janek lolled sideways, just about managing to raise an arm to prop his head up before it connected with the table as the beer made its presence felt. ‘I die and the name dies with me. The family dies.’

‘Oh…’ Said Thomas softly. ‘I don’t really know if I’d want children.’ He said, not really knowing what to say under the circumstances. ‘I mean I have sisters, and they have children. I think. But the name…it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’d change it if I could.’    

‘Mr Smith?’ Said Janek dryly.

Thomas shook his head, a little apologetically, in response to the implied question but declined to offer more.

‘What’s it for you then?’ Said Janek, still leaning heavily on his arm. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I think mostly I just don’t want to be different anymore.’


	13. Chapter 13

‘Shhhhh!’ Thomas said, in between snorts of laughter, recovering just in time to save himself from sprawling onto the landing as he missed the last step on the staircase.

‘You bloody “Shhhhhhhhh”!’ Janek hissed loudly directly into Thomas’s ear as he attempted to pull Thomas back up into a standing position.

He managed.

Unfortunately this was at the expense of sending himself falling backwards, thankfully onto the landing not back down the stairs.   

‘Quick!’ Thomas exclaimed, grabbing hold of Janek’s hand and dragging him away down the corridor as he heard the sound of a door being unlocked; undoubtedly so that its occupant could scold whoever was making noise in the inn after midnight.

Thomas herded Janek inside his room and slammed the door, with more vigour than intended, behind them. They both collapsed into giggles.

‘Shall I go and say sorry to the person?’ Said Janek.

‘What person?’ Said Thomas, sniffing back tears of laughter.

‘The person we woke up…’ He went to push Thomas out of the way to open the door. ‘…I should say sorry to the person.’

‘Best way you could say sorry to the person.’ Thomas said, taking Janek by the shoulders and spinning him about to face back into the room again. ‘Is to go to sleep yourself.’

‘Yes, yes sleep.’ Janek agreed. ‘And I must say…’ He pointed to the unvarnished floorboards. ‘…this is a very nice floor you have here Mr Smith and I thank you for letting me borrow it.’

‘Well it’s not like I’m using it.’ Thomas said with a smile, hanging up his coat and hat by the door and motioning for Janek to pass over his.

‘True.’ Said Janek, tossing his hat over to Thomas; who caught it deftly with one hand and then proceeded to spend several minutes staring at it in surprise that he _had_ managed to catch it in his present state. He completely missed the jacket.

‘Ow! Bloody…fuck!’ Thomas shouted as the fabric swiped him across the side of the head.

‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ Janek choked out, clutching his sides as he creased up laughing.

‘Go “Shhhh” yourself!’ Thomas retorted, plonking his backside onto the bed, which gave way even more than he remembered and off-balanced him slightly. He proceeded to undo and remove his shoes, tossing one of them at Janek as he continued to howl with laughter at Thomas’s clumsiness.

‘Oi!’

A few seconds later one of Janek’s shoes flew back across the room in retaliation.

It missed Thomas, but landed on the bedspread, leaving a nasty smear on the dull umber wool of the cover.

‘Keep your dirt to yourself!’ Thomas grumbled, throwing the shoe back at him.

‘Your’s is dirty too.’ Janek retorted, making a show of holding Thomas’s shoe up by the laces and scrunching up his face as though a pungent aroma was emanating from the object.

‘How dare you insinuate such a thing sir?’ Said Thomas in mock indignation, plucking a pillow from the bed he fell forwards onto his knees and crawled the short distance between them to clump Janek around the head with it.

‘Oh you knob!’ Janek cried, wrestling the pillow from Thomas’s grasp with only minor difficulty.

Thomas chuckled. ‘You can keep that…’ He glanced down at the floorboards. ‘…think you might need it!’ He got up and stepped over Janek to wash his face in the basin at the side of the room.

‘Mmmmm.’ Janek agreed, plumping it up before arranging it on the floor, laying down on his side facing towards Thomas’s bed.

Before long Thomas appeared in his view again. He was in the process of unbuttoning his waistcoat.

‘You going to take it off?’ Said Janek.

‘Take what off?’

‘It…’ Said Janek, pointing with an unsteady arm to Thomas’s glove. ‘…that.’

Thomas looked down to the floor as he discarded his waistcoat.

‘Usually do.’ He replied tonelessly.

‘Can I see?’

‘Why?’

Janek shrugged, propping himself up on his side and scooping the pillow up to cuddle at his chest.

‘Curious I suppose.’

‘Well what you _should_ be is asleep.’

Thomas walked over to switch the light out, reasoning he could finish undressing in the dark.

‘Ha! Not so fast!’ Janek exclaimed from shockingly close by.

Thomas turned to find Janek standing behind him, still clutching the pillow.

Quick as a flash Janek pressed the pillow, and most of his body weight, against Thomas’s chest, mock-pinning him in the corner of the room.

‘There is no escape from the pillow fort…’ Janek explained in all seriousness. ‘…save for granting one’s captor satisfaction.’

‘You’re not seeing it.’ Said Thomas. ‘And you’ll need more than one pillow to make it a fort.’

Janek sighed, his breath ticking Thomas’s neck. ‘Come on…’ He said, releasing his hold on the pillow, though it still stayed propped between them at their proximity, to hunt for Thomas’s hand.

Thomas let him.

‘Ah, here we are…’ Janek swayed a little on his feet as he brought Thomas’s gloved hand up from his side. Thomas swayed with him, feeling none too steady on his feet either. He felt uncomfortably hot.

Janek seemed to radiate warmth, and that, plus the impromptu ‘fort’ of soft furnishings, had him feeling lightheaded; and for some reason less defensive than he had felt a moment ago.

 ‘Can I?’ Asked Janek, holding Thomas’s hand up, touching only the exposed fingers and wrist.

Thomas was distracted a moment by the skin contact; especially the contrast between Janek’s calloused and twisted fingers and his own relatively delicate digits.

‘Alright, sorry.’ Said Janek, mistaking Thomas’s hesitancy for refusal.

He began to back away.

Thomas quickly halted him, placing his spare hand on his shoulder.

Janek looked questioningly up at him.

In answer, Thomas unfastened the glove at the wrist, before offering his hand back to Janek.

He could have taken it off himself, of course. And for a moment he wondered why he hadn’t.

Then Janek’s fingers were sliding over his skin, searching under the soft leather even as he peeled it back with the other hand.

Then he realised.

‘Mmmm that must have hurt…’ Mumbled Janek, loosely holding Thomas’s fingers with one hand and his wrist with the other as he looked in fascination at the discoloration and roughness at the scar’s center.

‘It did.’ Thomas said.

‘It’s probably time for sleep now.’ Said Janek, sounding a little melancholy.

‘Staying upright is…’ Thomas gave an unintentional sway against the wall. ‘…becoming harder now, I grant you.’ He said, his voice gruff with the remnants of beer.

‘Careful!’ Said Janek, pressing closer and bringing one of his hands to hold up Thomas’s shoulder. He hadn’t let go of Thomas’s hand with the other.

The heat of him was overwhelming.

‘You feel cold.’

Thomas wasn’t sure at what point Janek’s hand had moved from his shoulder to his face, but the warm touch was welcome, so welcome.

‘Are you sick?’

Sick? That should have meant something to Thomas.

But it didn’t.

Because Janek’s lips were just there, inches away, and in a moment Thomas was on them.

Janek’s response was tentative but sensual. If he was shocked he didn’t show it. He leant into the kiss, tightening his hold of Thomas’s hand as he did.

There was a blissful quiet between them; exchanged breaths and gasps punctuating their shared comfort.

Thomas eventually succeeded in his goal of trapping one of Janek’s lips long enough to run the tip pf his tongue over it, savouring the difference in texture between his coarse lips and the smoothness beyond. He’d never done that before.

For some reason it seemed so important now to savour it, to appreciate it.

Janek certainly seemed to appreciate it, he pressed his body in closer, all but crushing Thomas against the wall.

‘You going to move your damn fort?’ Thomas said softly, eyes still closed from the kiss.

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

Seconds later the pillow was gone, Janek’s hands were at his waist, and he had a hand tangled in the back of Janek’s hair, guiding him and stroking him as their mouths moved in tandem; held captive in the wonderful warmth.

Thomas noticed the fingers working open his trousers a few moments before Janek pulled away to inquire if he could ‘get him on the bed’.

He answered in the affirmative, having barely enough time to swipe his suspenders from his shoulders before the backs of his knees found the bed and sent him spilling back onto it.

As he shuffled back further onto the bed he found everything below the waist (bar his socks, that clung on grimly) was left behind in Janek’s insistent grip, leaving him abruptly half naked and more than a little confused as to how that had transpired.

He couldn’t for a moment remember how he had gotten to the point of being on the bed either.

Then Janek was upon him, remaining for only the briefest moment at Thomas’s mouth before sliding eagerly down, his hair tickling at the inside of Thomas’s raised thighs.

He wasn’t sure even then that he remembered. But he wasn’t about to question.

Janek murmured something that Thomas missed entirely before using an eager hand to guide Thomas’s penis into his mouth.

Thomas shouted, loudly, from somewhere deep at the back of his own throat as his length found the back of Janek’s.

Janek bypassed the traditional licks, gentle nuzzling, and slow non-committal open-mouthed teasing that generally formed part and parcel of such encounters; at least in Thomas’s world, where sucking off was for the benefit of the receiver and the receiver alone – and the giver took great pains to minimise actual oral contact with the organ in question.

For his part, Janek inelegantly and ravenously sucked and swilled with a naked hunger, mouth sealed tight, tongue savouring every inch of the underside while the back of his throat took the tip

He worked with an energy that had Thomas’s hips irresistibly rising with each swallow; on the one hand fearful of the degree to which Janek’s mouth tugged at the thin skin, on the other wishing for yet more firmness. More from the man who was born to do this.

This was just…Thomas looked down, his lips drawing up in a contented smile even as his face twitched with each bob of Janek’s head. He could see now why Janek could find no words to describe it.

He actually wanted it. Thomas couldn’t believe it. There were no worries there. No hesitation due to inexperience, no self-consciousness on either of their parts in the face of Janek’s enthusiasm, there was just that delicious feeling.

Thomas rocked his hips, Janek murmured in thanks.

Janek sucked him down, Thomas shouted in rapture.

Delicious. Delicious.

What did it matter that he was getting older? What did it matter that there was grey in his hair? What did it matter that he needed a larger waistcoat now than he had five years ago?

What did _any_ of that matter?  

Why had he waited so long?

Who cared if he was still wearing his socks? Who cared if he hadn’t bathed that day?

Who cared if his skin was still cold and clammy since he’d taken the…

Taken the…

Taken…

Oh God.

‘STOP!’

Thomas screeched at him, drawing his legs up to his chest and jerking sideways to dislodge him; unable to stand the time it would take for Janek to comprehend the instruction on his own and act.

‘Get AWAY from me!’ Thomas screamed, kicking out at Janek, colliding with something, the side of his head perhaps, and hearing a dull thud as Janek landed hard on the floor by the side of the bed.

Janek cried out as he connected with the floor, the pain jolting him out of the haze of the previous moments; leaving him staring, wide eyed in panic, up at the bed where Thomas lay shivering.

Thomas cried out again, shunting to get the bed covers up over himself, pulling them tight, facing determinedly to the wall.

On the floor below the bed Janek sat, hand at his lips in disbelief, rocking. He began to chastise himself repeatedly with a babble of incomprehensible words that were half apology, half prayer. Over and over and…

‘What the devil is going on in there?’ A harsh voice shouted through the door, closely followed by equally harsh knocking.

‘You...FUCK OFF!’ Thomas shouted, hearing a hoarseness in his voice that said he had damaged something in his throat but reaching sufficient volume and adequate note of threatening that the grumpy interloper went on his way without further comment, leaving Thomas to collapse against his remaining pillow, in his shirt and socks, to cry.

He would have given anything to be able to turn off the light from where he was.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing himself not to hear Janek’s unceasing babbling and sobs.

He knew his medicine was just across the room in his jacket pocket.

He also knew there was no power on earth that would bring him out from underneath the sanctuary of the bed covers or tear him away from the soothing blankness of the wall.  

But he couldn’t block out the sounds from below.

He heard Janek reproaching himself. He heard Janek crying. He heard him crawling over to the opposite wall. Heard him curl up.

Eventually, he heard the crying stop.

The next morning he dressed in his rumpled clothes, picked up the bag that still contained his unworn pyjamas, and slipped out with his medicine in hand - leaving the figure hunched against the wall to sleep until the innkeeper saw fit to disturb him.

 


	14. Chapter 14

He still held the medicine bottle gripped tightly in his hand as he reached the station. He had intended to take it there. But he could find no quiet corner to do so. He walked quickly through the confusion of people bustling about, flinching at the guard’s whistles and overwhelming screams of steam as the trains relieved themselves at the platforms.

He couldn’t remember where the men’s room was to be found, but knew it wouldn’t do him much good to locate it anyway. There was no privacy to be had there. He had noted the one cubicle door was hanging off its hinges on the day he arrived and if the frequency with which the facilities were cleaned was anything to go by, a maintenance man was unlikely to have rectified the issue in the time since his last visit.

Besides, he couldn’t remember what platform he needed. And that concern was the most pressing one of the moment. Adrenaline stirred up by panic that he might miss his train, arrive late, and stretch Carson’s limited tolerance of staff absence even further, had him practically running across the station foyer in search of the departure boards.

In a way that was good. It meant he had little time to think on other things.

Although his inability to get a good wash in before coming to the station meant that there was an uncomfortable dirty feeling, both literal and figuratively, to get him shuddering and uttering expletives to himself whenever his mind wandered.

Each time he considered putting the medicine bottle into his pocket or transferring it into his bag the thought would soon be quashed with a comforting squeeze of the little thing. He noticed a grey smear on his palm where the bottle had rubbed repeatedly against it, but still he couldn’t quite bring himself to let it go.

More by luck than judgement, Thomas made it onto the train a good ten minutes before departure.

As he sat, finally still after the exertion of the morning, he felt his heart hammering away at his chest and his breath far quicker than he would have thought appropriate given his general fitness. He was panicked, he knew that, but now he was on the train. So the panic could subside.

He tried to take deep breaths to bring this about sooner rather than later.

He looked out the window, watching a team of men scuttling away down the platform pushing a cart of luggage. Workers they were. Manual labourers. Not unlike…

‘Fuck!’ Thomas grunted loudly, bashing the side of his fist against the window.

A lilac clad woman who had been about to take a seat in his compartment with her two daughters made a hasty retreat.

Thomas was embarrassed, panicked, and now highly paranoid. It was an unfortunate combination. He pressed his lips together tightly as he looked out the window again in an effort to forestall any further involuntary exclamations.

What if Janek missed his train? _Should_ he have woken him up?

What if the innkeeper found him and made him pay for staying there, and then he couldn’t afford…

‘Christ’s sake!’ Thomas muttered, then flushed red at realising he had spoken aloud again without meaning to.

Thankfully this time there was no one in the compartment with him to hear.

Suddenly fearful he might not get another solitary moment between there and Yorkshire if someone did decide to sit with him, Thomas quickly extracted the bottle from the indent of his palm. The grey stain was darker now, but Thomas gave it no mind; there were rustlings and bangings from both sides of the compartment that told him the train was rapidly filling up.

He had intended to wait until he had calmed down a little, but the prospect of the dose being delayed for hours should someone decide to sit opposite him on the train quickly had him gulping the liquid down.

He didn’t try to taste it this time. Just the memory of the metallic taste of the previous morning was enough to turn his stomach even before burn of this new dose hit his throat. He was wracked with a fit of coughing that barely stayed the right side of civilised; in that the acid of his stomach, while making it up his throat, didn’t quite reach his mouth to eject over the opposite seat. Nevertheless, the coughing lasted just long enough to ensure him a compartment all to himself for the first leg of the journey.

And that was just as well. The feeling that vomiting was imminent, and the accompanying discomfort, persisted throughout the first couple of hours. Thomas doubted he could have managed even a polite nod of welcome under the circumstances, much less stilted small talk.

By late morning he was beginning to feel better.

By midday he felt positively human. As the red bricks of the south gave way to the yellow bricks of the north and the landscape opened up around the train line, he felt a strange contentment settle over him.

He wondered why that should be. He supposed that in the past journeying away from London had always been cause for frustration; now the quiet of Yorkshire, free from the temptations of the city (Thomas had to pause a moment to shiver violently in disgust at himself), seemed like a fine prospect indeed.

He laughed out loud at the thought of the prospects at Downton.

Molesley. Good grief. Then there was Bates of course. Thomas was of the opinion he would rather sever his own sex than have Bates go anywhere near it. Carson? That was a scary thought. Though the thought _had_ occurred once, Thomas smirked ruefully. A long long time ago when he had first arrived. Back when he was still able to rejoice in his full, arrogant glory. Back before life’s humbling lessons had begun to pile up against him.

Thomas had never been quite sure if the thought had sprung from a desire to have Carson _really_ telling him what to do with himself, so to speak, or if he had fancied giving the orders to Carson for once - to regain some of the dignity he lost each time Carson instructed him in his day to day duties. Whatever the rational, the notion had served for one session, and one session alone, of furtive masturbation before being filed away deep in his memory banks. Until now, that was.

And why was he thinking of that now?

Thomas watched blankly as the rolling countryside slipped past the window.

Why, for the love of God, was he thinking about that now? Why was he thinking about them, about his colleagues, at all? Why, more importantly, was he thinking about them like _that_?

His mouth turned down miserably at the corners, lips pressed together even tighter than before for fear of an outburst.

He willed the train on faster. He needed what was in the package at Ripon. He needed his medicine.

He needed to think on, to digest, to consider, everything that had been discussed with Moore over the past two days.

He needed his medicine and he needed time to think. Then all would be well.

He needn’t telephone to tell Moore about his lapse back at the inn. That was just because he hadn’t taken his medicine. No. No need to tell Moore.

Maybe he should telephone him when he picked up his medicine? Really he ought to let Moore know it had been received.

Yes, that’s what he’d do.

 


	15. Chapter 15

‘It’s Mr Barrow. You should have something for me.’ Said Thomas, rocking forwards and standing on tip-toe in an attempt to peer over the counter in the post office. ‘There should have been a special delivery this morning, it’s very important that you…’

‘Yes, yes.’ Said the postmaster, waving an arm about in an attempt to halt the verbal tirade. ‘Just give me a moment to look.’

Thomas lasted only a few seconds before blurting out. ‘It should have arrived this morning. It’s…’

‘Important?’ Said the postmaster, slightly ill humouredly as he yanked a rectangular shaped parcel wrapped in paper and string off the middle shelf. ‘Mr…’ He made a show of squinting his eyes, taking his time in confirming the name on the label. ‘…Barrow! Here you are sir.’ He said, adding a bit of a dry bite to the word ‘sir’.

‘Thank you.’ Said Thomas, subdued by the sight of the package and holding his hand out for it.

The postmaster handed it to him without further ado.

‘Heavy thing that.’ The postmaster remarked.

‘It is.’ Said Thomas, smiling at the parcel rather than the man. ‘Thank you.’ He repeated absently. Tucking the parcel tightly under his arm and retrieving his bag from the floor, Thomas left the post office in a far calmer state than he had entered.

‘And a good day to you.’ Said the postmaster to himself, watching the door swing shut with a shake of his head.

Thomas let out a long breath as he walked out onto the pavement. Suddenly the bleak autumn weather that had irritated him as he left the train station seemed bright and pleasant, he could see the vivid hues of the leaves in the trees instead of bemoaning them blocking up the pavement. He clutched the parcel tight under his arm.

Even his irritation at the people wandering, seemingly aimlessley, about the village square in the afternoon while others had to work didn’t bother him.

In fact, as he crossed over the road on his way to the edge of the village he took a moment to appreciate the evidence of life in Ripon; there was more to the place than the sleepy town square and musty corner shop (that the Downton staff only frequented out of necessity), there were people.

More explicitly, there were women.

He cast his mind briefly back to the sage advice Moore had dealt to him and the rest of the group the previous day, advice centering on the importance of constant study and practice to perfect the art of forming meaningful connections, before setting his jaw and striding confidently across the square towards his targets.

‘Ladies…’ Thomas said with a smile.

The two young women, one with garishly unnatural brassy toned hair, but both dressed with a nod to fashion and modesty, turned to the interloper with annoyance at having been interrupted mid conversation.

 The looks of annoyance speedily commuted themselves to calculating smiles as they took in the sight of the interrupter, able to look past his unhealthily sallow looking skin tone and instead focus on the quality of the cut of his suit and hair.  

‘…I seem to have gotten myself rather turned around…’ Said Thomas, ‘…could you tell me the way to Bracken Road?’

The women looked to each other and giggled heartily.

Thomas didn’t care at all for the expressions on their faces, the _knowing_ expressions, when they looked back towards him.

‘I beg your pardon ladies.’ Said Thomas, his grip becoming tighter on the parcel under his arm. He had thought he had set the bar sufficiently low for this, his first attempt at talking to women ‘as a man’ as Moore had put it. Pretending to ask for directions had seemed such a fail-safe means of striking up a conversation. He found himself wishing he had come to the ladies with the other suggestion, namely asking for a shop recommendation. Not that there were many shops in Ripon.

Asking for directions admitted a personal deficiency, he thought uncomfortably.

But, he thought, his discomfort deepening, that hardly seemed grounds for laughter and ridicule.

Was there something in his manner of address that made his _actual_ personal deficiency plain to them? There had been several times in his life where women had ‘just known’ about him, and it chilled him to think it might be so obvious that a few women (and fairly frivolous ones at that if their manner of giggling was anything to go by) could instantly tell the moment he opened his mouth.

His gut told him to give the encounter up as a lost cause. Told him to just walk away.

But he couldn’t without knowing.

‘May I ask why you are laughing?’

‘Oh…’ Said the brassy-haired woman, tears in her eyes as she attempted to quell her laughter. ‘…You must forgive us sir. It’s only that it’s such a silly ruse is all sir.’

‘Ruse?’

‘You aren’t lost, are you?’ Said the second woman, a brunette with a slightly more dignified manner of expression than her friend.

Thomas read the certainty in her thin face as she spoke and judged that it would be pointless to lie. ‘I suppose not.’ He admitted, trying to keep his expression pleasant. ‘But how did you…?’

‘You’re Mr Barrow, you are.’ The brassy-haired woman chipped in again. ‘And we know all about you.’

For the umpteenth time that day, Thomas felt his stomach give an uncomfortable turn.

‘Mmmmm…’ Said the brunette. ‘They say the village cricket team will never stand a chance while you’re at Downton.’

‘Oh!’ Said Thomas, letting out a shaky breath and momentarily losing a few inches in height as he hunched forwards in relief.

‘So you see…’ Said the other, waggling her finger as though to scold him. ‘…We know you’ve no cause to be asking us directions round these parts.’

‘No, I suppose I don’t…’ Thomas said, feeling genuinely stupid at having thought he could play the role of a stranger passing through when just about everyone in Ripon had seen him batting for the house team for the past half a decade. But at least the sick feeling in his stomach had abated. ‘…you can’t blame a man for trying, can you?’ He said lightly with a small shrug, ready to bid adieu and go.

‘Trix…’ The brassy-haired woman continued, batting the brunette lightly on her sleeve to get her attention, beaming as though about to make a fine joke. ‘...Say we let him off for trying to deceive us? Hmmm? Just think what heroes we’d be if Mr Barrow had a reason to play for the village team…’

Thomas didn’t care for her tone, her words, or for the vulgar way in which she indicated her ring finger (bare, unsurprisingly, thought Thomas) as she spoke. But he found himself feeling light all the same at the inappropriately suggestive looks the two women gave him as they began to giggle again, bashfully this time, though still at his expense. Yes he had set the bar very low (evidently even lower than he had realised – he was now fairly convinced that the women’s clothing was the only aspect of ‘class’ to be found in either of them) but the challenge had been a success.

Not one, but two women having a good old crack at him.

And now, having made his first foray ‘as a man’, it was time to retreat.

‘Until next time ladies.’ Said Thomas with a polite smile.

With a nod of his head he went on his way.

The smile managed to stick for almost the whole way back to Downton, neatly distracting him from his desperate need for a bath (and a quiet place to take his medicine).

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Thomas walked the last half a mile or so very slowly, his mood dropping the closer he came to Downton. Soon, despite his best slow-walking efforts, the unmistakable sight of Downton’s large oak trees came into sight.

He wondered if he ought to have lingered in Ripon a little longer. Arriving back at Downton in the early evening there was the danger that Carson would include him in the dinner service. And Thomas found himself abhorring the idea of standing waiting at a table at present; he felt excitable and irritable in equal measure, and neither leant themselves to a pleasant work attitude.

On the other hand, he didn’t particularly fancy hiding behind the tree for the next three hours.

Being instantly confronted with Anna, Mrs Hughes and Baxter on his arrival made him wish he had chosen the tree.

‘Mr Barrow!’ Exclaimed Mrs Hughes. ‘We weren’t sure when we were expecting you.’

Thomas gave a thin smile and a sharp jerk of his head by way of hello, not trusting himself to speak at that moment lest he say something scathingly sarcastic in response to Mrs Hughes’s utterly pointless comment; his earlier excitability now completely overtaken by irritability.

His smile became visibly fixed when the three women made no move to quit their conversation spot in the middle of the corridor to let him pass.

‘How is your father?’ Said Anna tentatively.

‘Fine.’ Thomas was about to bark back in his tetchiness. Then he remembered that as far as the staff at Downton were concerned his father was meant to be dead (or very nearly so).

In the end Thomas said nothing.

Mrs Hughes bowed her head sagely while Anna and Baxter regarded him with looks full of sympathy.

He stayed where he was, awkwardly avoiding their gaze, resisting the urge to hop from foot to foot in impatience.

‘I’ll tell Mr Carson he can do without you for dinner tonight.’ Said Mrs Hughes gently.

‘Thank you.’ Said Thomas genuinely, though he took pains to reign in his satisfaction at being permitted to miss dinner. After all, he _was_ supposed to be grieving.

Finally, the small group parted to let him through.

‘Oh…’ Said Anna as he passed. ‘…did you pick that up from the porch?’

Thomas glanced at her and realised she was pointing at his package.

‘Who’s it for?’ Said Anna, stepping forwards and tilting her head in an attempt to look at the label.

‘Mine!’ Thomas snapped at her, twisting his whole upper body to move the package away, out of her sight.

‘Now Mr Barrow, there’s really no need to…’ Mrs Hughes began.

Thomas didn’t hear the rest. He scurried off quickly down the corridor, desperate to reach the stairs, his room, and sanctuary.

It wasn’t until he was half-way up the stairs that he realised his actions could _possibly_ be construed as rude and that his fresh start in the cause of becoming _less_ of a social pariah _might_ be off to a shaky start. Plus the added complication that there was now the very real chance that Mrs Hughes would happily tell Carson that Thomas was back and ready to take part in the dinner service.

Thomas groaned aloud to himself. Setting the package down gently onto his desk he proceeded to make a token effort to unpack (which in practice meant putting his pyjamas into the laundry and tipping the personal grooming items – which were as unused as his pyjamas – into the top drawer of his bureau) before stealing across the corridor to barricade himself into the bathroom for a much needed wash.

He luxuriated (as much as one could with only a wash cloth and a bar of soap for company) and unpicked the revelations from the previous two days at The Centre. He mentally reeled off the many things he could do, and the many things he needed to do, in the cause of bringing about the life he wanted.

Of course, he reminded himself ruefully after the debacle downstairs, taking the time to speak to people in an authoritative and polite manner, to let them notice his new improved persona, was one of the key points. It was something that he knew was important to keep in mind for both friendship and romantic encounters. Moore had been very clear on that fact. He would be treated the way he presented himself. If he presented as an outsider, that was all he would ever be.

Thomas raised up his left arm, watching the soap bubbles slide down towards his shoulder. He flexed his fingers, watching the thin webbing of scars stretch across the back of his hand, picked out bright pink by the heat of the water.

He thought of the feel of Janek’s mouth as he clenched his fist.

A mistake, he thought. Proof of his weakness and depravity.

He let go of the thought as his fingers unfurled.

It was time to stop being an outsider.

He sank his shoulders below the bath water, feeling utterly contented. He couldn’t imagine why he had been in such a hostile mood earlier. He was happy to be back. This was a wonderful environment in which to affect the personal change he so dearly desired. A safe environment that he had known for years. One with no temptations. One with the comfort of routine. A place that contained many people who had known him over the years who would be astonished by the change in him. Thomas smiled to himself in satisfaction.

Oh he’d show them alright.  

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

It took Thomas an inordinately long amount of time to decide what to wear to go down to the servant’s hall that night. True, he had happily escaped the drudgery of serving the Crawleys their evening tit-bits; but there was still the matter of his own empty belly to contend with.

Putting on the suit he had worn to London was out of the question. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever wear the thing again, if he was honest. But it wasn’t even worth considering the matter until after it had seen the inside of a laundry hamper.

His pyjamas were out of the question, naturally. He didn’t feel like rumpling his second suit, the pinstripe, just for the sake of half an hour’s worth of munching in a place where there was no one to impress.

Ah, he thought to himself, but he was trying to impress them. All of them. A calm and attractive demeanour almost invariably went hand in hand with impeccable dress.

The pinstripe suit then.

But then…He paused at the wardrobe doors, staring at the small array of clothes within…Some of them had already seen him in his other suit. Wouldn’t _they_ find it ridiculously conceited for him to dress in a fresh suit just to have dinner in the servant’s hall?

After a few more minutes of thought Thomas selected his evening livery. He reasoned that he could make the token offer of assisting with the last of the after-dinner drinks.

Thomas looked at himself in the mirror before getting dressed. The odd feeling that his skin was somehow too thick and swollen in places still lingered on from the previous day. But as Thomas perused his reflection he was pleased to note that his skin didn’t look as queer as it felt.

After dressing he gave his hair a quick spruce up with the comb, took a lingering look at the package waiting to be unwrapped, and was out the door in search of food and company.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, breathing deeply, preparing.

‘The family have gone up.’ Said Carson curtly, taking in Thomas’s attire with a glance as he entered the hall.

Thomas blinked, halted in his progress towards his seat by the tone of Carson’s voice.

‘Hello Mr Carson.’ Thomas said eventually, judging it to be the least offensive response he could muster.

No one else spoke as he took his seat. The majority were already seated; bar the personal servants whose absence was to be expected given that the nobles were evidently in need of some help into their Pyjamas at the time.

Thomas caught a few sideways glances sent in his direction, but no one offered anything by way of conversation.

He supposed they might be afraid of upsetting him, Thomas mused as he reminded himself he was supposed to be acting the part of one recently bereaved.

‘So silent this evening…’ He said with a smile, taking it upon himself to lighten the tense atmosphere. ‘…Mr Molesley…’ Thomas continued, settling on the usual sure bet for inane prattle. ‘…you must have some story or news to share?’

‘Perhaps Mr Molesley…’ Carson interjected. ‘…is fatigued from taking on your work this evening as well as his own.’

Thomas looked to Molesley, who gave a little shrug as if to indicate it wasn’t the case but that he had no intention of arguing the point.

Thomas lowered his gaze to his plate, conceding defeat.

‘How was London Mr Barrow?’

Of course, Thomas thought darkly, Bates could always be counted on to be charitable.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t feel well.’ Thomas muttered to everyone other than Bates as he pushed his plate away from him and quickly rose out of his seat.

His brisk strides gave way to a run the moment he was out of the hall.

He took the stairs two at a time.

Upon reaching his room he slammed the door shut, savouring the sense of relief that the final achievement of much needed solitude brought.

He untied the parcel on his desk with shaking fingers.

The lid of the box within he slid off ever so carefully lest the box have gotten turned upside down during transport.

But no, all was present and correct.

Thomas discarded the accompanying invoice, he already knew how much it was costing him, and lightly ran his fingers over the two dozen little bottles arranged neatly in rows.  

He selected a bottle and began to extract it from the rest.

The movement of his hand suddenly halted.

Had he taken a midday dose?

He was a little stupefied to find that he couldn’t remember.

He supposed he couldn’t have had one precisely at midday because he hadn’t collected the parcel until the afternoon. Or had he had two bottles left for that day instead of one? He _really_ couldn’t remember.

Had he had one before his bath?

That last one Thomas was sure of.

To be on the safe side, Thomas plucked a second bottle out of the box.


	18. Chapter 18

‘Are you quite well Mr Barrow?’

Thomas gritted his teeth; glad he had the excuse of being bent over the table, midway through laying out the napkins in the dining room for lunch, to hide his expression.

At least it was Mrs Hughes asking this time instead of Baxter.

He would happily bet that question had passed Baxter’s lips over a hundred times that past week.

‘I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, Mrs Hughes.’ He said.

Mrs Hughes considered a moment before speaking again. ‘I don’t mean to push the point, Mr Barrow, but you really don’t seem well.’

‘I am quite well Mrs Hughes.’

‘Then may I ask why you seem to think your stomach needs to be held in while you work?’ She said. ‘Are you worried perhaps it might escape and go gallivanting about the table?’

Thomas looked down, realising in surprise that his free hand was indeed pressing into his midriff. He had forgotten it was there. Either that or he had moved his hand unconsciously through force of habit.

The pain in his stomach had started four days previous and he had become rather adept at putting it to the back of his mind, save for rare occasions where he was alone and able to rub a hand over his belly to sooth it. Apparently, on this occasion, his hand had forgotten it was supposed to wait for him to be alone.

‘I pulled a muscle reaching for a shelf.’ Thomas said smoothly, turning about to face her. He reasoned that presenting a defiant front might convince her to drop the issue.

‘And I suppose you have an explanation for why your skin looks like it wishes to melt off your face as well?’ Said Mrs Hughes, still speaking with a touch of humour but with a distinct sternness in her voice.  

‘I am quite well Mrs Hughes.’ Thomas said again.

Mrs Hughes gave a small humph of displeasure, but she consented to let the matter drop. Thomas watched her intently as she walked out of the dining room.

Willing her to walk faster.

He was able to hold off just long enough for her to make it out the room before making a dive for the half empty wood bucket by the fire.

Stomach and face contracting in pain, he heaved up the meagre contents of his stomach.

‘Might I be of some assistance?’

Bates’s dry voice sounded from somewhere close behind him.

Thomas cursed the double entry way into the dining room.

‘I doubt it.’ He replied, left with nastiness alone as a means of maintaining what was left of his dignity. ‘And what business have you in a dining room?’

‘Mr Carson sent me.’ Bates said. ‘He asked that I remind you Lady Mary will be entertaining two additional guests for lunch on my way up to see to his Lordship.’

‘I already knew.’ Said Thomas, coughing and spitting out what was left stuck under his tongue and up his nose. ‘Look at the places at the bloody table, I already knew!’

‘Well done Mr Barrow.’ Said Bates. ‘You have indeed managed to set sufficient places.’

On all fours as he was, Thomas’s body was briefly wracked with a sharp pain as his stomach attempted to bring up food that wasn’t there.

‘Fuck you.’ Thomas muttered into the bucket.  

There was a long pause behind him. Thomas didn’t know or care whether the obscenity had genuinely shocked Bates or if it had just peeved him.

It was one of the few benefits of feeling so unwell; Thomas had allowed himself to completely disregard his efforts at sociability in the cause of simply getting through each day without someone in authority seeing him in the kind of compromising position he was currently occupying. Every now and then he would be wracked by guilt and frustration that he was making no progress in that arena, not ‘engaging with the process’ as he had pledged to do.

But the present moment was not one of those times.

‘Seeing as you have everything under control…’ Said Bates pleasantly. ‘…I’ll be on my way.’

Wishing he had the strength to bring Bates’s face down hard onto the concrete surround of the fireplace, Thomas stayed kneeling where he was as he listened to Bates’s footsteps leave the room.

He looked down into the bucket, almost heaved again, then quickly looked away.

‘It’ll pass.’ He said softly to himself.

Under the pretence of arranging probate for his father, he had telephoned Mr Moore the previous day when the pain in his stomach had become almost too much to bear and Moore had assured him this was a perfectly normal part of the process.

‘You are changing.’ Mr Moore had said, in that soothing smooth way of his. ‘And with all change comes discomfort. But you must persevere. Persevere on the path you are taking.’

‘Persevere.’ Thomas repeated to himself from his position on the floor.

He dragged himself up to his feet, made a mental note to take the wood bucket with him when he went, and continued to arrange the napkins.  


	19. Chapter 19

Thomas’s efforts to avoid Baxter came to naught the next morning. She managed to accost him on his way to breakfast in the servant’s hall, placing herself neatly between him and the doorway.

‘I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.’ She said quietly.

Glancing over her shoulder into the servant’s hall, Thomas could see Molesley’s neck elongating as he craned his head to listen in.

‘There’s nothing wrong.’ Thomas whispered harshly back, deliberately scowling at her in an attempt to get Molesley up and out of his seat to intervene.

‘Thomas please.’ She said, attempting to appeal to the child she had known before social protocol dictated Mr Barrow. ‘I know you like to keep yourself to yourself…we _all_ know you like to keep yourself to yourself…’ She corrected. ‘…but I’m really worried about you. You haven’t been right for some time.’

‘It’s not that…’ Thomas began to refute the assertion that he _wanted_ to keep to himself, but changed his mind in the same instant.

There seemed to be something highly pathetic in declaring that he had lately been trying to put an end to his loneliness – particularly since he had recently made a habit of barking and snapping at the other staff even more than usual.

‘If you won’t speak to me then perhaps Mrs Hughes?’ Said Baxter.

‘Of course.’ Said Thomas bitterly, wiping away the sweat on his brow with his handkerchief. He seemed to be needing to do that a lot lately. ‘ She put you up to this didn’t she.’

‘No.’ Baxter replied without missing a beat. ‘But she worries too. Thomas I really think you ought to go to…’

Thomas was about to tell Baxter where _she_ could go when suddenly the figure of Carson appeared in his peripheral vision.

Thomas jumped a little at that. Not least because if anyone were to take it upon themselves to intervene in the conversation, he had expected it to be Molesley.

‘Morning post, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson, holding out a letter.

Thomas couldn’t help but notice the strange look on Carson’s face as he took the letter from him.

Thomas waited until Carson had gone on his way to distribute the rest of the post before turning the envelope over to read the return address.

_Mr J.Kent_

_Greenford House…_

Opposite him, Baxter made a soft sound of relief.

‘Well I imagine that will have you feeling a little better for the present.’ She said.

Thomas didn’t reply.

She left to take her place at the breakfast table.

Thomas stared at the name, his breath quickening each time he re-read it.

He turned the letter over in his hands.

The sound of scraping cutlery behind him told him that breakfast had started but he stayed where he was.

He barely noticed Daisy on her way past with the bacon.

He turned the letter over again.

The thing seemed to gain weight the longer he held it in his hands.

He knew what he had to do.

Thomas stole away down the corridor, slipped into Carson’s office and closed the door softly behind him.

He crossed the room quickly and knelt down in front of the small fireplace.

Thomas turned the letter over in his hands one more time.

He knew he mustn’t open it.

If anything, the desperate need he felt to read it was precisely the reason why he shouldn’t.

Remove the temptation, Moore had said.

Thomas reached forwards and dropped the letter into the fire.

There had been a lot of words in it, he noted as he watched the pages curl and blacken. It would have taken Jimmy some time.

But he didn’t feel deprived for having given it over. If anything, he felt lighter.

His medicine may not agree with him. He may be growing uglier and sicker by the day. He may not be able to make a conversation without snarling. But this…this he could do right.

He had done something right.

He was still on the path.

He took himself off to breakfast with a smile on his face.


	20. Chapter 20

‘I don’t think it’s working.’ Said Thomas, whispering into the phone receiver as he kept one eye on the door to Carson’s office; anticipating the man in question back any second.

‘Why? Have there been lapses?’ Said Moore gently, with none of the haste to be found on Thomas’s end of the phone.

‘No…not as such.’ Thomas replied, having made the decision to keep what happened the last night in London to himself and honestly able to say there had been nothing else since. ‘In fact when I got a letter the other day from the one I told you about who...’

‘Yes well done.’ Said Moore curtly. His voice became softer again as he continued. ‘So from what I can tell everything is working just fine.’

‘But it’s not just…’ Thomas paused for a moment, hearing someone shuffle past the door. They soon moved on. ‘…it’s not just about that. Not for me. It’s about not being lonely. And…’ He bit his lip in annoyance at having to voice so pathetic a sentiment. ‘…I’m lonely.’

‘Why should you be lonely?’ Said Moore. ‘You know who you are now. Others will be drawn to that.’

‘But…’ Thomas’s face flushed red at the memory of some of the more unsavoury occurrences of late. ‘…I’m sick all the time. I don’t feel well. It’s hard to think of anything else. Those bottles…’

‘Keep taking the medicine Thomas, I can’t stress that enough.’ Moore cut in. ‘And as to the other matter…’ He said, taking his time as though sensing the urgency in Thomas’s voice. ‘…no change is easy. And you are changing the very core of yourself. Of course you will feel ill.’

‘But…’

‘And…’ Moore cut him off firmly. ‘…it is on you to show strength of character and work through your own personal discomforts in order to form meaningful attachments to others. That is all.’

‘Right…’ Thomas said softly. ‘Thank you.’

He placed the phone back down onto the desk not a moment too soon.

Carson jumped in surprise, giving a highly comical expression, upon entering his office to find Thomas already there.

‘Mr Barrow, I wondered where you’d gotten to.’ He said.

‘Yes Mr Carson, I was just…’ Thomas cast his eyes about the room; what precisely was he ‘just’ doing?

Thankfully Carson was too preoccupied to notice the lack of explanation.

A few minutes later Thomas found out why.

In a meeting for all staff, Carson informed the servants that the Crawleys were to be away for the next day after an unexpected invitation had arisen to attend a gala in York. The announcement brought happy mumbling from all quarters, but this was soon quashed by Carson’s assertion that the usual daily tasks would be tended to as diligently as if the family were present (bar the need to cook their meals). He did however concede that Lady Grantham had expressed her wishes that the staff be given the evening off in order to attend the fair that was expected on the outskirts of the village.

Carson made it clear he took no pleasure in that last part, though his inability to contravene the instructions of her Ladyship meant that the plan would be followed through. Thomas noted a sly look on Mrs Hughes’s face when Carson informed the rest of the staff that he personally _wouldn’t_ be attending the fair. Thomas concealed a hint of a smile on his own face at the certainty of Carson attending the fair if Mrs Hughes so desired.

With the staff dismissed, Thomas was able to take a moment to sit at the table with a cigarette and an untouched pack of cards and consider Moore’s words earlier on the telephone. He had to admit Moore had a point. Was an upset stomach really so much a hardship that he couldn’t offer someone a good morning without scowling?

Thomas watched the smoke from his cigarette curling round his knuckles.

He felt the fair was a fine development. A good chance to make up some ground. Images of games and bright stalls came into his mind as he thought on various scenarios (most of which involved his stellar skills at throwing at a target) in which he might win the respect of other members of staff. At the very least if they were to all go as a group he would have the chance to engage in conversation as they walked to the village. It wasn’t as though the whole lot of them could avoid him on an open road.

Although, he thought to himself, there really weren’t that many of them that it would be practical for him to talk to. What with past animosity and his current position within the household, stuck somewhere between his past jobs as footman and valet and the unattainable heights of the senior management team, he was not over burdened with people he could speak with as an equal. Or something resembling one.

Still, he had to start somewhere.

And what’s wrong with the present? He thought to himself.

‘Fancy a game Moleslay?’ He said, glancing up.

From across the room Moleslay looked at him with great suspicion.

‘Cards.’ Said Thomas, brandishing the pack.

‘Yes, no. I mean, I understood you meant cards, Mr Barrow.’ Said Moleslay, tripping over his words in his evident discomfort at being addressed by Thomas in anything other than a hostile manner.

‘So…’ Said Thomas slowly, not going so far as to offer a smile but managing to keep anything resembling a frown or hostility off his face. ‘How about it?’

‘Alright.’ Said Moleslay, still looking confused.

Baxter wore a similar look of confusion when she entered the servant’s hall a few minutes later to see Moleslay, two hall boys and a maid all playing cards with Thomas in what seemed to be a convivial arrangement.

Soon she too was persuaded to join.

Thomas went about his tasks later that day with a renewed sense of energy, unable to comprehend how he could have possibly felt as low as he thought he remembered being earlier that week. It was easy, he thought to himself. Easy and nice.

Unfortunately walking in on the tail end of a conversation between Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore, in which they were comparing guesses as to what favour he must be seeking to explain his pleasantness to Moleslay, sent Thomas reeling right back to the feeling of bleakness he could no longer recall; continuing downwards into somewhere that was full of powerful frustration and deep sense of anger. 

They were wrong. Moore was wrong. And he was sick of the lot of them.

How could he have possibly thought himself so happy a moment previous?

‘Mr Carson?’ Thomas said, tapping on Carson’s office door.

‘Yes Mr Barrow?’ Carson said, motioning for him to enter.

‘I wondered Mr Carson…’ Said Thomas as he came to stand in front of the desk. ‘…if you have any experience of Liverpool?’

‘I…’ Mr Carson was forced to recall seasons spent touring the entertainment circuits of the place. ‘…know of it.’ He conceded, though making a mental note not to indulge Thomas with any clarity as to _how_ he knew of it.

‘My father…’ Said Thomas, pausing for effect. ‘…he had a friend who worked at the docks there. Now he did tell me the name of the place, but it’s completely gone out of my head. I wondered if you might be able to assist me?’

‘Well I suppose there’s…’ Carson thought for a moment. ‘…the Albert Dock.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that was it.’

‘The Salthouse?’

‘No…’ Thomas said. ‘…it began with the letter ‘C’ I think.’

‘That doesn’t narrow it down as much as you might think, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson sternly, but he consented to think of some further suggestions. ‘Let me see now, you have Canning…’

‘Yes!’ Thomas shouted, so exuberantly that Carson near jumped out his chair. ‘Sorry.’ He said, quickly subduing himself.

‘That’s quite alright, Mr Barrow. Now if that will be all?’

‘Well actually…’ Thomas said tentatively. ‘…I wondered if I might take advantage of the family being away tomorrow to make a quick visit there?’

‘You have had your leave allowance, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson.

‘But there are the hallboys to do the grunt work while the family are away. Surely you could spare me for a day?’

‘And what of the fair?’ Said Carson.

‘I wouldn’t be going anyway.’ Thomas replied. ‘Please…’ He continued. ‘…my father asked me to give this man a message from him, and it would really mean a lot to me if I could.’

Carson’s expression softened a minute amount.

‘Are you sure you are up to the journey?’ He said.

‘Pardon?’

‘You have been unwell…’ Said Carson. ‘…are you sure you are up to it?’

‘Maybe a change of air is what I need.’ Thomas said.

And someone to talk to. That too. Right now, more than anything. 


	21. Chapter 21

The bravado that comes with single-minded frustration had dissipated by the time Thomas’s train neared Liverpool. By the time he disembarked and hailed a trap to take him down to the docks it was touch and go as to whether he would continue on this particular path or retreat back to Downton.

But the thought of the emptiness that awaited him there kept him moving forwards.

Forwards there was the potential for conversation.

Potential was the operative word of course; Thomas was not so delusional as to think the manner of their parting in London could go unremarked. But perhaps that may form the crux of their initial talk rather than put paid to interaction entirely.

And at the very least he was away from those patronising, insulting, sickly idiots he was forced to spend each waking minute with at home.

Let them have their fair.

He came up to the main dock buildings and noticed the man driving the trap turn about to query which building.

Of course, Thomas had no idea.

He paid the man for the journey so far and left to walk the waterfront on foot. The sight of the workers bustling back and forth, shifting machinery and materials that looked deadly in heft alone (let alone the odd sparks flying about within the dark recesses of the buildings), had Thomas immediately thankful for his own far more peaceful existence. The place seemed an utter mess. And a dangerous one at that. But, he observed, there was a pattern to the way the different groups of men were working. And there was something thrilling about the half-plated hull of a ship that would one day be huge lying there in the dry dock.

The question remained, how to find one person in the many that swarmed about. Particularly since the majority seemed determined to move at breakneck speed from one location to the other, with no time to notice or speak with an interloper.

The darkness of the buildings with their fiery sparks seemed promising. Thomas imagined that Janek’s trade, given the involvement of ship’s boilers, must involve metalwork of some kind. Yes, the sparks seemed promising.

Not feeling comfortable interrupting men holding large sharp and/or hot implements, Thomas stood at the huge double doorway of the nearest building for some time before a man with an overall finally deigned to speak with him.

‘You looking for Peterson?’ The man said, glancing down at the sheet of paper tacked to a board in his hand. ‘He’s not expecting suppliers till four.’ He said sounding highly disgruntled.

‘No, I’m looking for Mr Biel.’ Thomas said. ‘Janek Biel.’ He added, remembering that round those parts he was most likely known by his first name.

‘Whose that?’ Said the man, frowning at Thomas.

‘A boiler worker.’ Thomas replied.

‘So not trade then?’

‘Yes, he’s trade.’

‘No…I mean, you’re not.’ Said the man, sounding highly bored of the exchange.

‘I’m not.’ Thomas said. ‘But it’s very important I speak to him!’ He called as the man went to walk away.

‘I don’t know what to tell you, I don’t know any Biel.’ Said the man with a shrug. ‘Ask around. Maybe you’ll get lucky.’

‘Janek Biel.’ Thomas repeated. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him? His name is Polish but he isn’t.’

‘I’m looking for a “not Polish” man…’ Said the man dryly. ‘…well that certainly…’

‘You talking about Janek?’ Another voice interjected.

Thomas turned to the speaker with a feeling of intense gratitude. The man with the board made a hasty retreat, evidently feeling equally grateful to the interloper.

‘I suppose he must have to explain the lack of an accent a lot.’ Thomas said, smiling at the young man who had spoken.

The young man didn’t return the smile.

‘You family?’ He said.

Thomas shook his head. ‘No, I’m…a friend.’

‘Right.’ The young man gave a sigh, looking out across the docks for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.

‘So could you tell me where to…?’ Thomas trailed off at the look in his eyes.

The young man waited a while before speaking, and when he did it was with a look of deep and genuine sorrow.

‘Sorry to be the one to have to tell you. They found him hanging from the beam in his room few weeks ago.’

‘What happened?’ Said Thomas in a small voice.

The young man could only shrug. ‘Don’t know. Happened right after he got back from seeing his cousin in London.’ He said. ‘Me and the boys, we all liked him. He was…interesting.’

‘Yes.’ Thomas agreed, suddenly feeling as though someone very heavy were sitting on his shoulders.

What else was there to say?

Quietly he thanked him. Then he walked back along the waterfront, up between the buildings, and out onto the main road. The first two men who drove by with traps ignored him completely, as though his altered mental state had somehow manifested itself in rendering him ghost like in person as well. But eventually he was able to gain transport back to the station.

He passed the journey thinking of nothing, except his intention to join the others at the village fair on his arrival. It seemed important that he do so.

Very important.

The grey gathering rain clouds as he stepped out onto the platform did nothing to deter his purpose. He even took to walking the distance from the station as waiting even the few minutes required for the bus (that would get him there in a quarter of the time) seemed an impossible impediment.

So he walked, and smoked; leaving cigarette ends behind him along the road like a breadcrumb trail leading him back to somewhere he didn’t want to ever go again.

The sky was dark enough for the lights of the fair to lend an ethereal glow to the bright bunting between the stalls, and Thomas entered the green as though stepping through into another world. This world had brightness, people, and copious amounts of pungent food and drink and, in short, felt a kind of welcoming paradise.

He spotted the others before they saw him.

They stood, still in a large group, no doubt not long arrived themselves, towards the side of the fair. Thomas was able to advance almost the whole way towards them before being spotted.

‘Ah!’ He declared merrily. ‘I have been sighted!’

A few, especially Anna and Bates, shared an odd look. But he didn’t care.

‘So…’ He said, indicating the fair stalls behind him with a wildly swinging gesture of his arm. ‘…who would like a game of…something?’

‘Mr Barrow, perhaps you ought to sit down?’ Said Mrs Hughes. ‘Perhaps somewhere away from the beer tent?’ She added, speaking to him in a low voice designed for privacy, but which in practice the majority heard.

‘I am not drunk.’ Said Thomas with a widely stretched smile. ‘I’m at the fair.’

‘Yes…’ Said Mrs Hughes, watching him dubiously.

Some of the younger members of staff began to drift off towards various colourful delights nearby (conspicuously not inviting Thomas to go with them) while the older members of the household continued to observe from their sideline vantage point. They wrinkled their noses at the first few drops of fine drizzle as the imminent rain increased its threat. Thomas stood with them, not caring a fig about the rain. He found he couldn’t keep still. His feet wanted to move, his gaze was everywhere, and he was bursting to speak – not that there was anything particular he wished to say, but he wished to speak.

Which was why he reacted with quite so much enthusiasm upon recognising a particular loud-mouthed brassy-haired girl across the way from them.

‘Oi!’ He called, causing several of those nearby to cringe both at the social faux pas and the assumption that Thomas was now so drunk he was harassing random passers-by.

The fact that none of them had seen him raise a glass to his lips nor (were they to take it upon themselves to get that close) smell his breath for alcohol, didn’t occur.

‘Mr Barrow I really think you ought to…’ Mrs Hughes began.

‘Mr Barrow!’ The girl exclaimed as she came over to them with a large group of male and female friends in tow (several beer tankards between them), effectively hushing Mrs Hughes’s concerns that Thomas had taken it upon himself to harass strangers.

‘Hello there.’ Said Thomas with his best smile.

‘Care to win me something?’ She said.

Thomas smiled still wider in response. Stepping forwards to take her arm, he led the way across the fair.

Behind them the older members of staff at Downton were left watching in open mouthed confusion, looking between one another for an explanation, but finding none forthcoming.

Thomas didn’t manage to win her anything in the end. His surplus energy didn’t translate itself well into attempting to be still and to aim. But Polly seemed to like his energy.

Polly, that was her name, Thomas reminded himself for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t until after he had asked her where ‘Trix’ was, her brunette companion from the other day, that he realised he didn’t know her name. And now that he did he was not about to forget it.

‘Polly…’ He said, laughing as an errant bottle lying on the ground caused him to stumble against her side. She tightened up the arm she had around his back and laughed too.

‘Yes?’ She said.

‘Polly, Polly, Polly…’ Thomas repeated in a sing song voice, craning his head up to look skywards.

The manoeuvre heralded the exact moment the heavens decided to open.

Polly screamed, and wasn’t the only one, as there was a mad dash for the tents and stalls as the customers and fair attendants endeavoured to protect themselves from the sudden deluge.

She went to run into a nearby tent, following the crowd who had been standing by the coconut shy. But Thomas pulled her away further, closer, wrapping his arms around her as he honoured the epic rainstorm with a kiss.

It seemed the right thing to do.

And Polly seemed to agree.

Her response was enthusiastic, almost vicious, causing Thomas to have to hunt for those moments of warmth amid the cooling rain when he managed to catch her mouth open. She seemed as equally unable to stay still as he, but rather than moving for the sake of it she moved solely towards him. Pressing against him as the rain thundered around them.

They made their way into the small back area of the preserves stall, no sign of the farmer who had been running it, falling ungracefully down due to an errant guide rope as they entered.

‘Oh bloody hell!’ Exclaimed Thomas as his hat rolled to the other side of their small tented enclosure.

‘Ha!’ Polly shouted, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. She dashed after it, seemingly mindless of her heeled shoes. ‘It’s mine now!’

‘No you don’t!’ Thomas was in hot pursuit in a moment. Of course, catching her within an instant given their tiny place of occupation.

She refused to give up the hat without a kiss by way of ransom. Thomas laughingly bestowed the required ransom, but found himself dragged into a scuffle for control of the hat nonetheless.

They soon found their way to the floor again, gasping from the exertion, steam rising from their wet clothes in the dry air of the tent, a humid atmosphere on the rise.

Polly laughed, still holding the hat far away to her side. Far out of reach.

Thomas rolled onto her, making a valiant effort to retrieve it anyway.

She responded by flinging it as far away as the tiny tent would allow.

‘I was going to let you keep it you know…’ Thomas said, leaning down to tease the tip of her nose with his own.

She gave a delighted laugh and joined in with the new game, going so far as to move her mouth just a fraction of an inch away from Thomas’s when he attempted to move in for another kiss. Thomas’s energy finally compelled him to break the rules, holding her head in place with a hand at her cheek as he moved in for a kiss that was all encompassing.

That is, until he noticed her hand working its way down between their pressed bellies.

The moment broken, she persisted, taking his sudden distraction from the kiss as a sign she was on the right track.

Thomas was stunned. Anything he may have missed about the female type during his younger years, he could guarantee that no woman would have…his mouth hung open as she grasped at him through his trousers…ever taken it upon herself to do something like this.

He didn’t know what to do.

But Polly’s attention was so completely taken by attempting to do a good job, even more so once she managed to get his trousers undone, that she didn’t notice his hesitation.

Thomas rapidly came to the conclusion that the ‘job’ she was doing was sub-standard at best. There was evidently a solid understanding of the mechanics, no doubt courtesy of one or several of the younger men he had seen her walking about with earlier, but there was no finesse.

Still it was good to be touched even if the hand was weak and overly vigorous.

He clasped his own hand over hers, pushing back against her hurry and bringing some much needed slow friction.

It was all about getting it done, preferably as quickly as possible. That seemed the safe, albeit distasteful, way of extracting himself from the situation. 

‘Mmmmm…’ She mumbled, smiling with her nose at his neck to be utterly distracted by the smell of him. ‘You can if you like, you know.’

‘What?’ Thomas whispered, halting as he queried the odd statement.

A shift of her skirts to give sight of her peach underwear, the central seam of which was as open as the legs of its owner, rapidly answered his question.

‘Oh, I wasn’t going to…’ Thomas began, trying hard to conceal his finding the situation shocking rather than in any way amorous.

She wrapped her legs about his hips, and pulled his shoulders down with her hands. He consented to kiss her, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of oddity down below.

‘I’ll make you feel good.’ She whispered to him, audible only by proximity in the din of the rain on canvass. ‘Don’t you want feel good?’

Thomas could not in all honesty say no.

But he found the promise to be unfulfilled.

There was too much strangeness to contend with. There was so much ‘give’ as he pushed that he feared he had hurt her, there was no firmness to the thighs gripping his hips, there was a wetness that repulsed him; nothing about it was good.

He tried.

But each thrust elicited reminders, in sight, sound or even smell, of everything that was wrong with the situation. And everything _was_ wrong.

He couldn’t do it.

It was horrible.

He felt sick.

‘God…’

His sudden cry and collapse was taken by Polly to be proof of her prowess, leaving her a satisfied customer as Thomas buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing into her hair.

Thomas on the other hand was not fulfilled, and couldn’t honestly see a way to ever being so again.

Thomas didn’t wait for the rain to stop before leaving, pausing just long enough to retrieve his hat from the floor.

He didn’t put it on his head however.

He didn’t feel like it.

Instead he held it clutched in his hand, letting the rain ruin his hair and clothes as he started the long walk back to Downton alone.

Upon arrival a lack of lights told him he had beaten the others home.

That was good.

He walked up to the attic, still dazed, so lost, and took himself straight into the bathroom.

Stripping off his clothes he set about filling the bath.

He just about managed to set the urn on the fire for heating and fill up the tub half-way with cold water before the events of the day caught up with him.

All of them.

A strange keening sound met the ears of the male Downton contingent when they arrived back a little while later.

Carson took it upon himself to investigate; not realising until too late that he had several hall boys in tow as he pushed open the bathroom door to find Thomas slumped naked and crying on the floor by the bath tub.


	22. Chapter 22

‘Oh I…I see.’ Carson said awkwardly, casting his eyes towards the floor but compelled to briefly flick his gaze back and forth in Thomas’s direction in order to establish if there was any urgent physical injury that had prompted his present state.

He could find none.

But there was some mess on some parts of Thomas that were…indicative. Carson’s comprehension soon arrived at the cause of Thomas’s need for a bath at so ungodly an hour. And he was content to leave him to it.

But there was the matter of the tittering laughter of the hall boys to contend with.

‘Out!’ Carson ordered sharply. ‘You’ve all beds to be in, so out!’

The boys were startled enough to comply immediately, though the gleefully amused looks they shared with one another on the way out of the bathroom were a clear signpost to Carson that the Abbey’s underbutler would struggle with staff discipline for some time.

‘I’ll leave you to it then, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson, looking back over his shoulder as he moved to the door; waiting for a look of acknowledgement from Thomas.

Thomas, still sat there on the floorboards, one leg outstretched, one arm propped over the rim of the bath, fingers dangling in the water, gave no response.

Carson stayed where he was for a moment, watching the shivering of Thomas’s shoulders.

He looked at the partially full bath tub, noting the lack of steam rising from the water.

He walked over, deliberately going to the opposite side of the bath than the one Thomas was crouched naked beside, and dipped his hand in the water. 

‘The…um…the water seems to have gone cold.’ Carson said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Allow me to just…’

Without completing the sentence Carson took the large urn from the fireplace where it had been steaming for quite some time. He tipped just enough into the bath to create warmth, but not enough to scald. And he was sure of it, he tested with his fingers each time he added more.

‘There now, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson breezily, intensely uncomfortable but doing his darndest to conceal it. ‘All ready. So I’ll just…’ He trailed off again, and made another attempt to exit the room.

‘Thank you.’ A painfully weak voice said from behind him.

Carson looked round again, deeply troubled by the fact that Thomas still hadn’t moved. It was hard to say if it was the hung head or the nudity that offended him the most, but the end result was the same, he was deeply uncomfortable with Thomas’s current state.

‘Do you…’ Carson said, far far more gently than anyone in the house had ever heard before. ‘…require assistance?’

The tiny bob up and down of Thomas’s lolling head sent Carson’s face briefly twisting in discomfort, but he worked through the emotion valiantly.

With a firm arm under each of Thomas’s armpits, Carson managed to coax him up enough to enable Thomas to tentatively step over and into the tub.

Carson lowered him down.

Thomas instantly went to curl into himself again, hanging his head like before.

But Carson pushed him back to sit upright, risking his shirt sleeves in the process, reaching for the wash cloth that was draped over the side of the bath and putting it in Thomas’s hands.

Thomas sat looking at it, turning the wet fabric of the cloth over in his hands.

Carson took it back from him, dipping it into the water before folding it to carefully dab at the side of Thomas’s blotched and miserable face.

In response, Thomas pulled Carson’s arm towards him, hugging it against his chest, burying his face in the crook of Carson’s elbow.

Abandoning his futile effort to keep his shirt sleeves dry, Carson stayed kneeling where he was.

He raised his free hand to rub gently at the back of Thomas’s neck.


	23. Chapter 23

Thomas missed breakfast that morning. He hadn’t intended to, but given the strange looks he received from the others when he eventually made his way downstairs, it was probably for the best.

Thomas walked lightly down the corridor to Carson’s office, his slow steps dragging out the walk that would normally take seconds.

He knocked at the door so softly that he received no response and was forced to try again.

‘Enter.’ Carson instructed in that absent tone of voice that informed interlopers that he was otherwise occupied.

Thomas complied, finding Carson sat behind his desk with three ledgers and a good half a dozen or so loose sheets of paper carefully arranged before him.

‘Mr Barrow!’ Carson said in surprise. ‘What is it?’ He asked, sounding more than a little trepidatious of the response.

Thomas noted that Carson was unable to meet his eye.

‘I…um…’ Thomas cleared his throat nervously. ‘I wondered if I might be permitted to make a telephone call?’

‘Yes.’ Said Carson. ‘Yes, of course.’ He immediately jumped up from his seat, gathered up his ledgers and papers in a highly haphazard manner, and was out the door without being asked.

Thomas let out a deep breath as he walked over to sit in Carson’s seat.

He took the ear piece off its holder and sat looking at it for a moment in his hand.

He stood up again, still clutching the phone.

He considered for a moment before sitting back down again.

He pushed the handle down and waited for someone to answer the other end.

His voice lasted just long enough to make the call request before breaking; leaving him wheezing incoherently into the mouth piece for some time after Moore answered.

‘It’s Mr Barrow.’ He eventually managed.

‘And why have you called me, Mr Barrow?’

‘Because…’ Thomas’s voice cracked again. ‘Because everything’s wrong.’ He squeaked out before tears took over.

‘Shhh…’ Said Moore noncommittally. ‘Tell me what’s wrong Mr Barrow.’

‘It’s everything, it’s…’ Thomas sobbed out.

‘I doubt that Mr Barrow.’ Said Moore firmly. ‘Now what is it that has prompted you to call me?’

‘I tried…’ Thomas said. ‘…I tried with a woman.’

‘Tried what, Mr Barrow?’

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. ‘To…make love.’ He said, shuddering as an army of invisible insects scuttled up his spine. His throat fought back a powerful urge to gag; although that was more likely to be down to the dose of medicine he had taken before making his way downstairs.

‘And were you successful?’ Said Moore, as easily as if he were taking Thomas’s order for tea.

Thomas half sighed half sobbed into the mouth piece, taking half a dozen breaths before speaking.

‘It felt wrong.’ He said, unable to verbally capture the feeling in any other way. ‘Everything’s wrong.’ He added softly.

Thomas paused to sniff back unwanted fluids before continuing.

‘I’m sick all the time, I have no one to talk to, I’m…’ He blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth with a rapidity that Moore rapidly put into check.

‘Hush, Mr Barrow…’ Said Moore warmly but firmly. ‘…I know precisely what’s wrong.’

‘You do?’ Said Thomas, sniffing again.

Moore sighed a long theatrical sigh; designed to indicate the burden he carried in being far more perceptive and intelligent than those around him. ‘You have achieved no closure, Mr Barrow. That is why you feel poorly, that is why you cannot move on.’

‘Closure?’

‘Yes.’ Said Moore firmly. ‘You haven’t truly let go.’

Thomas realised he was shaking, and had risen out of the seat again without being conscious of having done so. ‘How do I do that?’

‘There are people in your past you have hurt, Mr Barrow.’ There was a pause, punctuated by the sound of a match striking the other end of the phone. ‘Of course you are unable to move forwards down the path you have chosen. You must ask their forgiveness. Only then can you leave them behind.’

‘But…’ Thomas began, painfully aware of those from whom there could be no hope of forgiveness (given they were gone from this life and he was unlikely to meet them in the next), but also nursing a twist of frustration deep in his ruined guts. ‘…you told me not to contact anyone. Anyone. _You_ said that it would be a temptation.’ He said, with as much energy as he could muster.

‘It is something to be avoided when one can.’ Said Moore smoothly, unperturbed, and with a swiftness that suggested he had answered the question many times before. ‘But in some special cases, and I think you and I can both agree you are something of a special case, it can be impossible to move on without that closure…’

When Thomas said nothing in response he continued.

‘…and so contact must be made. You need to apologise to those you have hurt Thomas. Otherwise you will continue to fail.’

Thomas nodded into the phone, just a little move of his head; forgetting he couldn’t be seen.

But Moore seemed assured his wisdom had been well received regardless.

‘You let me know how that goes Mr Barrow. Remember I’m always here for you.’ He said. ‘And, Mr Barrow…?’

‘Yes.’

‘Keep taking the medicine.’

When he had hung up the phone Thomas allowed himself a short while to gather his thoughts before pushing the lever to make another call.

‘Greenford House, East Riding…’ He whispered hoarsely when prompted.

He coughed furiously to try to regain his voice before someone answered.

‘Greenford House, Uttlesfed residence, Samuel first footman speaking.’ Came the chipper response.

Despite it all, Thomas felt a stab of disappointment at the first footman not having a more familiar name. That Jimmy might not move into an equally prestigious position to his place in Downton hadn’t occurred to him.

‘H..hello.’ Thomas said, trying desperately to speak normally. ‘I have an urgent message for a Mr James Kent.’ He said; lying in the strictest sense of the word, although the sudden desperate need to speak with Jimmy did carry with it a certain sense of urgency.

‘Oh…Sorry sir, you have the wrong house.’

‘No.’ Said Thomas, though he couldn’t help but doubt himself the way his memory had been going of late. ‘It was definitely Greenford House. Mr Kent wrote a letter to me a short while ago.’

‘And if you’d called a little while ago sir you might have been able to speak with him. He’s not here now.’ Said the footman, clearly eager to be off the phone having established that the phone call was of little consequence.

‘Where did he go?’ Thomas blurted out, abandoning pretence of dignity.

‘I don’t think that’s rightfully mine to say.’ The footman responded flatly. ‘Now if that will be all…’

‘Well…is anyone in the house in contact with him?’ Thomas demanded. ‘Please. It’s very important.’

‘I don’t think that’s rightfully…’

‘Tell him Mr Barrow telephoned.’ Thomas said before hanging up the mouthpiece so hard that he almost broke the phone.

He dropped down defeatedly into Carson’s seat, wishing he could take some more time to himself but painfully aware that Carson might take it upon himself to take back his office at any moment.

With a shaking hand Thomas picked up the receiver once more, steeling himself.

‘Hello, Tibernay House please. London.’

‘Tibernay House, Warwick the butler speaking.’ A voice said eventually on the other end.

‘Good morning.’ Said Thomas, by some miracle managing to keep his voice level. ‘I have been asked by my master to enquire…’ Thomas had to pause for the briefest moment. ‘…if his Grace the Duke of Crowborough is in residence in London for the season? I believe his Lordship wishes to issue an invitation.’ He lied.

‘Why yes, sir. His Grace will be in residence for a further two weeks.’

Now what, thought Thomas to himself. The hard fact that he couldn’t possibly come out with a lie in the present moment that would justify him speaking to Philip directly, as opposed to the butler, immediately dampened any triumph at his having found a living someone to whom he could make amends.

‘Thank you Mr Warwick.’ Thomas said meekly. ‘My master will be in touch.’

He set the phone back down and pondered the issue.

He could always phone back at a later time and pretend to be someone else, he supposed. But no one save for personal acquaintances could hope to have a direct line to the Duke. And who was to say that the lords and ladies that Thomas knew had been connected in friendship with Philip in the past hadn’t gone the way of his friendship with Lord Grantham? Thomas very much doubted that Philip would consent to speak in person if he were to pretend to be Robert.

A knock at the door roused him from his reverie.

Thomas quickly jumped out of the chair and went to open the door. Rather unsurprisingly revealing an impatient Carson on the other side of it.

‘Mr Barrow I wonder if I might have use of my own office.’ Carson said gruffly.

‘Yes, Mr Carson.’ Said Thomas, sidestepping to let him pass.

Carson entered and went straight to his desk, turning his back on Thomas in anticipation (or hope) of the latter’s imminent departure from the room.

No such luck.

‘Mr Carson…’ Thomas said tentatively. ‘…I wondered if I might be permitted to briefly visit London tomorrow…Just the day.’ He added quickly, seeing the look on Carson’s face as he turned round.

‘No, Mr Barrow.’ Said Carson flatly. ‘I do not grant you permission to go. You have had many trips away from Downton of late and I am not entirely convinced that…that they have been to your own benefit…’

‘But…’

‘Furthermore…’ Carson sighed. ‘I would advise you to take yourself to see Dr Clarkson at your earliest convenience. This afternoon, to be precise.’

‘Right.’ Thomas said softly. ‘Might I be permitted to go now?’

‘You may.’ Said Carson, giving a deep nod.

Thomas nodded back and quit the room, taking himself upstairs to dress in his pinstripe suit before heading on his way down the driveway.

At the village he neatly circumnavigated Clarkson’s practice and took himself off to the bust stop.

He climbed on a bus to the station a few minutes later.


	24. Chapter 24

‘Good evening, my name is Thomas Barrow. I have urgent business with his Grace the Duke of Crowborough. Would you be so kind as to tell him I’m here?’ Said Thomas, straining to maintain an air of cool authority despite his rotting guts and sweating face. The latter issue had rendered the fresh collar he had put on for the occasion a yellowing dirty thing during the walk over; a source of intense pre-emptive embarrassment to Thomas as he knew Philip would be sure to notice.

That is, if he was permitted to see him at all.

The butler didn’t dismiss him outright. That was a good sign. But neither did he make any move to go and inform his master of the arrival of a strange, sweaty man in a neat suit on the front doorstep.

‘I regret to inform you Mr Barrow…’ Said the Butler solemnly. ‘…that his Grace is not expected back this evening.’

‘Oh…’ Said Thomas, crestfallen, forgetting he was supposed to be playing the part of a gentleman whose interest in the Duke’s location was purely business related. ‘…that’s…I mean…’ He stuttered. ‘…do you happen to know when he’ll be back?’

‘After acceptable visiting hours.’ Said the butler smoothly. There was no maliciousness in his voice, but there was a sternness that prevented Thomas from pressing the matter.

‘Well I…I’m staying locally at the Two Flagons Inn.’ Thomas said, trying to regain composure. ‘Perhaps I might be permitted to call tomorrow, at his Grace’s convenience?’

‘His Grace is expecting you?’ Said the butler. Thomas caught the look of fear in his eyes; the look that feared the consequences of taking up his master’s time with informing him that a run of the mill salesman had attempted to get a meeting with him – a Duke of all people!

Thomas couldn’t find appropriate words to explain.

‘Yes.’ He said after a pause, reasoning that Philip would most likely be able to come up with some excuse (once he had gotten over the inevitable surprise) for why a Mr Barrow might want to visit with him.

Of course there was still the issue that Philip might not want to see him.

Too late Thomas realised that giving over his name had been a mistake. If he turned up on the doorstep unannounced while Philip was in the house, he might be able to get in to see him. But now Philip had the chance to put his staff on guard to avoid him. 

To add to Thomas’s rising panic, he heard someone in the hallway behind the butler.

‘Warwick?’ Said a clipped female voice. ‘Is everything alright?’

The butler moved back just enough for Thomas to glimpse a slim, dark haired woman in the hallway beyond. Her age and fine blue velvet robes had his already pained stomach clenching violently at the realisation that this was, in all probability, Philip’s wife.

He knew there would be a Duchess. He did. But he had always shied away from conclusively confirming it. Thus it was something of an unwelcome shock to come face to face with her.

‘Forgive the intrusion your Grace.’ Said Thomas, quickly tipping his hat in the general direction of her and the butler before beating a hasty retreat.

His heart palpitated wildly throughout the walk back to the inn.

What if the butler didn’t pass the message on?

What if he did and Philip didn’t agree to see him?

Or worse – and this thought was enough to have Thomas stop mid-step in the street – what if Philip didn’t remember him at all?

Thomas stood stock still, stunned by the thought. Because, really, ten years was a long time. And while the summer months of ‘dalliance’ (Thomas cringed at the word) had been some of the most devilishly happy of his life, he couldn’t honestly assume the same for Philip. More to the point, Thomas had been of the hope that something better might come along following their separation. While it hadn’t proved to be the case for him, who was to say that Philip had had similarly poor luck?

Even were Philip to have maintained his pattern of taking a solitary lover during the summer season, that was still ten potentially younger and more handsome men to distract him from the memory of ever having met a man called Thomas.

He walked the rest of the way back to the Inn gripped with a sense of defeated melancholy.

Upon arriving back at the inn he ordered himself some food that he had no intention of eating, and asked it to be sent up to his room.

He had been sat staring at it go cold, while the clock on the mantle ticked aimlessly away by his head, for several hours when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in.’ Thomas called dully.

‘If you please sir…’ Said the innkeeper, who was standing at the doorway looking highly flummoxed. ‘There’s a man here. He says he wants to see you.’

Thomas rose from his seat, unable to do anything other than nod.

‘Shall I bring him up here?’

Thomas nodded again.

The innkeeper hurried away, still looking haunted.

In a moment Thomas was able to see why.

The unmistakable figure of the Duke of Crowborough, plainly dressed relative to his usual fare but still clad in garments collectively worth more than the building in which they were standing, swept into the room in a harried and forceful rush.

‘On your way.’ Philip barked at the innkeeper who was hovering by the open doorway, looking towards Thomas in bewilderment. The man harried away, closing the door behind him.

Thomas, already out of his chair, retreated to the far wall; leaving the small wooden table containing his tea as a buffer between them.

The moment the innkeeper was gone, Philip turned to him with a face full of anger.

The anger rapidly dissipated into a look of surprise as he took in the sight of the state of Thomas.

‘Good God. You look like hell.’ He said coldly, taking a step closer to get a better view. ‘You’re not dying are you?’ He asked, semi-seriously.

‘No.’ Said Thomas quietly, his addled mind finding nothing in the appearance of the man before him (save a higher forehead) to note as altered in the years they had been apart. Slipping easily back into the habit of neglecting to add the appropriate honorific.

‘Right then…’ Said Philip bluntly, his interest in the inspection clearly spent. He dropped down into the chair waiting by Thomas’s uneaten meal. ‘…I am here to tell you, in no uncertain terms Mr Barrow, that you will not be getting a penny out of me.’ He spat the word penny as though it were the most potent of obscenities. ‘Furthermore, should you ever dare to visit my property or speak with my staff or family again I will see to it that you are detained at His Majesties’ pleasure. Do I make myself clear?’

‘No, it’s not…’ Thomas began, still standing back to the wall, his arms crossed for comfort more than defence, as he attempted to gather his thoughts. ‘…It’s nothing like that.’ He said, hating the weakness in his own voice as he did.

‘Out with it.’ Said Philip bluntly.

‘This is…’ Thomas tried to think, he really did. But he found his head a useless and painful entity at that moment. ‘This is hard. Please…please give me a moment.’ He said, unable to look directly at Philip as he said it.

He stared at the floor, frantically trying to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing here.

‘Thomas…’ Said Philip, in a voice that made it absolutely clear that he was already half-way out the door in spirit even while his body remained seated. ‘…what are you doing here?’

‘Just one moment...WAIT!’ Thomas frantically shouted as Philip went to rise from his seat. ‘I came to apologise.’

That had Philip’s rear firmly back in the seat, albeit mostly in shock.

‘You…?’ Philip said. He stared in bewilderment, but there was also a hint of disgust.

Thomas dearly hoped that this was because Philip mistook or misunderstood his intentions as opposed to a damning response to his apology.

‘I’m sorry.’ Said Thomas, pressing his hands into the wall either side of his hips for added support. Also to keep his limbs as far away from Philip as humanly possible under the circumstances. ‘For what I did to you…I’m sorry. It was wrong of me and I’m sorry.’

‘For what you did?’ Said Philip, standing up and advancing, eyeing Thomas ferociously. ‘What have you done? I swear if you have done anything to compromise my position or my family I…’

‘Not now!’ Thomas shouted, halting Philip in his tracks. ‘Then…Before.’

‘Before.’ Philip repeated.

‘Yes, before.’ Said Thomas desperately. ‘I need to say how sorry I am…’ He was crying. ‘…I need you to know that. I need you to forgive me.’

‘Look…’ Said Philip, sounding very unsure of himself. ‘…I say again, you’ll not have any money from me. So whatever trick you’re thinking to pull, know that I’ll…’

‘No trick.’ Thomas said, hanging his head and sniffing back the unwanted emotion. ‘I just need you to know I’m sorry. That’s all. I’m…’

That was what he meant to say. Again.

But as his mouth moved to form the word he found his head pushed back. Soft lips covered his own. Leaving no provision to either breathe or speak.

Or think.

And for that last reason alone the kiss came off.

For a moment.

‘Nnnnh…’ Thomas broke the connection with a sharp twist of his head. He stayed stock still, face to the side, his breathing laboured and shallow, his mind useless.

‘Thomas I…I can’t believe…’ Philip began, speaking closely into Thomas’s ear, disturbing him with both his proximity and the sense of wonderment in his words.

Thomas could ill abide either.

‘No.’ Thomas said, trying desperately to get his head together despite the screaming from somewhere deep within. ‘No that’s not…’

As he felt Philip’s fingers touch lightly at his temple the screaming inside his head reached such a volume as to render itself silent, the sounds about him muffled as though heard through deep water.

Listen to me.

Thomas wanted to say.

That also.

But he found he couldn’t say anything.

Frantic, he shoved. Philip fell away from him.

Then Thomas ran.

No coat. No jacket. If he’d been barefoot before that’s how he’dve remained. He ran.

He didn’t slow until he was well away, down the street, round the corner. Past where Philip could find him if he cared to follow.

Thomas struggled to breath, so great was his need to cry.

He’d failed.

He wasn’t sure how.

But he knew, again, he’d failed.

He scratched at his scalp, ready to scream at the pressure inside his head, finding a nearby brick wall against which to lean and sob.

‘I don’t know…I don’t know…I don’t know…’ He chocked again and again.

He just didn’t know.

But was a man who would.

Stumbling and barging more than the odd passer-by as he went, Thomas took himself as quickly as he could in his direction.

Hair and clothes in equal dishevelment, though nothing compared to his mind, Thomas arrived in the street.

Leonard Street.

Moore’s street. The street that had been marked in the address of each invoice he had received since meeting the man.

Thomas couldn’t remember the house number.

Recalling from where he had just run was a difficulty; retrieving the house number from the depths of his memory a complete impossibility.

Desperate beyond any sense of dignity, he mounted the steps of the first house and knocked.

Five houses, four answers and a number of concerned looks later, he had his answer.

‘You want number 72.’ Said the old man. ‘That Mr Moore’s at 72.’

Thomas slipped as he retreated back down the steps to rush to number 72. He fell, caking his side in the gunk of the gutter, but he was on his feet again in a moment.

‘Are you alright there?’ Called the man. But Thomas had no time for him.

Finally, he was there; Moore’s place of residence.

Bypassing the doorbell entirely, Thomas hammered at the door with his fist.

‘Help.’ He said, even before the door was fully open.

That it might be someone other than Moore answering the door had not occurred. Thankfully, the man in question was the one who appeared.

He was dressed less formally than when they had first met. Looking all set for a night in an armchair. Which, in all likelihood, is from where Thomas had just roused him.

‘Good God!’ Said Moore, finally recognising Thomas an inordinately long time after he’d opened the door. He took a step forwards onto the porch, closing the door a little behind himself, barring them both from the warm glow of the hallway.

‘Please.’ Said Thomas. The word took three syllables in his present state. ‘I don’t know. Please.’

‘Get away!’ Moore exclaimed loudly, before turning to check over his shoulder to make sure no one inside the house had heard the ruckus and taken it upon themselves to investigate. ‘Away I say!’

‘But…’ Thomas said, his vision swimming. ‘…I need you. Help me. Please, help me.

‘You have no business here!’ Moore hissed. Thomas abstractly noted that for the first time Moore looked afraid. ‘No business!’ Moore repeated as loudly as he dared.

‘I don’t understand.’ Said Thomas, instinctively reaching out a hand towards hope. ‘Please…’

‘Leave!’

‘I can’t.’ Said Thomas. ‘I don’t know.’ He said, distracted, unable to find the words to say what he wanted to say. Unable to remember what he wanted to say, for that matter. ‘Please!’

‘Shhhhhh!’ Moore checked behind him again, evidently having heard a noise he turned back to Thomas with the wild look of a mad man.

‘You get away.’ He said to Thomas. ‘Away!’ He exclaimed, abandoning his post by the partially closed door to rush at Thomas.

Thomas stepped back.

Then again.

Found air.

And fell.  


	25. Chapter 25

He sat on the pavement looking up at steps, wondering how he had gotten down there. It was cold there.

Wet. Wet too.

The water soaking through the back of his trousers was an inch deep at least.

‘Oh…’ Thomas turned his face, eyes closed, up to the sky.

It was raining. How long had it been raining?

He hadn’t noticed any rain.

He opened his eyes, pondering the flecks dashing past the light of the street lamp above.

Was it raining before?

He looked down at his arm, pondering his white shirt-sleeve.

Soaked to see-through.

Where was his coat?

All around him men wrapped in stern dark clothing made their way past. They seemed to be walking far slower than humans care to. Their coat buttons glinting in the lamp light.

Their umbrellas large enough to hide behind.

Thomas waited for one of them to stop.

They continued to walk past. Slowly. Their footsteps resounding echoes.

Drops of rain striking the pavement; they seemed slow too. Thomas felt he could watch each one fall before breaking. Dreamlike.

Behind him a car roared past, juttering over the road surface.

Thomas’s gaze travelled up the steps to the innocuous white door beyond.

There wasn’t anyone there.

He didn’t know why he thought there ought to be. But there wasn’t anyone there.

 

He rolled sideways. Moving out the worst of the puddle.

His right hip was sore against the pavement. His right hand immobile.

He leant on the side of his hand to steady himself, pushing with the fingers of the other to get himself up off the floor.

The floor moved as he stood, sending him staggering forwards.

Leg moving to support him just in time; he remained upright.

He needed to go.

Limping, one foot in front of the other, through colossal and shaky effort he began to walk.

He held his dead right hand in his left. He accepted he couldn’t use it. He didn’t know why but he felt it must be to do with the pavement. But he felt better for knowing it was still there, still on his wrist.

It would work again soon.

He didn’t know if his shoes had escaped the original puddle. But they were wet now. His feet squelching with each step as he shuffled slowly from the glow of one street lamp to the next.

Houses and people slipped past.

And the rain went on.

Each junction reached saw him continue on in the direction he had taken.

Where was he going?

Forwards. Of that much Thomas was sure as he watched the disconcerted expressions on the faces of the people he passed.

As to where he was?

That was something he was unsure of until he found himself shuffling about the walls of the Billingsgate market. The Thames running slowly by beyond.

‘London then.’ He said to himself. 

As the rain clouds rolled over head, hiding the moon and its progress, the indifferent traffic of people had thinned and finally ceased.

It was quiet now.

Cold too.

Cold and wet.

His left hand had travelled up from clasping the other. Now he clutched at his forearm. Pressing both arms tight against his chest.

He looked down and was surprised, again, to find he had no coat.

‘Bloody coat.’ Thomas said.

And where was the bloody thing?

‘Bloody.’ Thomas repeated, blinking rain out of his eyes.

The inn. Where his bed was. That was where the coat was.

‘I left it at the inn.’ Thomas told no one in particular as he continued onwards, onto the bridge.

Two men fishing at the river bank paid him no mind. A young boy pushing a cart glanced only briefly.

Confused, Thomas halted in his progress.

Turning about he looked back, towards the market, towards the north. Wondering why he was here, at the river, not at the inn, in bed.

He shivered, lumbering a few uneven steps back the way he had come.

There was someone in his room.

That’s why he couldn’t go.

‘Oh yes.’ Thomas whispered sadly.

He couldn’t picture the person. But he knew they were there and that meant he shouldn’t be.

He decided he needed to go home. 

He needed a bath, he decided. A bath would be good. Warm.

‘Ticket for Downton.’ He muttered to himself, looking up-river at the hazy collation of buildings lining the banks.

But was there a Downton?

He hadn’t been there all day.

It had been a whole day. There would be all next morning too.

No trains to be had in the dead of the night.

‘No.’ Thomas said.

He didn’t think there would be a Downton any more. Not for him.

No bath then.

What was there though?

He leaned heavily on the stone barrier at the bridge’s edge, resting his tired bones.

He thought of nothing.

He could recall no names or faces for him. No visuals no facts. No places save for Downton and the spot on which he was stood.

 There were some feelings. But he recoiled from them; disagreeable things they were that had him shiver and flinch against the stonework.

And Downton shouldn’t be on the list. Because there was no Downton.

‘Sir…Sir…’

The voice wasn’t his own, but Thomas had no interest in what it was saying.

He was thinking about his coat again.

Thinking that it wasn’t proper to be out without it.

No, not proper at all.

‘Sir if you could please just…’

Thomas’s head hung limply on his neck, looking down at the dark water below. Elbows resting heavily on the barrier, his right hand turned a quarter past where it should be on his wrist; unnoticed.

Scruffy and sodden, coatless and smeared with pavement filth, he watched the water.

‘Sir you really need to…’

Why was that man shouting at him?

Was he ‘Sir’?

He couldn’t be.

He wasn’t anyone.

His name was Thomas Barrow and he was thirty four years old. But he could recall nothing else of consequence.

‘Sir the water is very cold…’

Was there water?

Thomas blinked. Yes there was.

He was watching water.

Why was he watching water?

Was he on a boat?

He couldn’t muster the will to raise his heavy head up and check.

‘SIR…’

What was he doing?

As the man’s shouting grew louder, the water came closer, and soon all that there was, was black.

 

**The End**

**(For now at least, thank you guys xx)**


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